


For you, in confidence

by anditwasstinky (thewicked)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AU (sort of), Awkwardness, Complicated Relationships, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Growing Up Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:42:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5118929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewicked/pseuds/anditwasstinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hajime and Tooru grow up together, separate for five years, and find each other again by a happy accident.  A spark is re-ignited, warmth rekindled, and old wounds finally begin to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For you, in confidence

**Author's Note:**

> BARELY AN AU, but... it still... is... kind of. Iwaizumi and Oikawa grow up together, but go to different high schools. That's basically it. Also, a few characters aren't where they're supposed to be, such as Kuroo, Kenma, and Bokuto living in Sendai, rather than Tokyo, but it's very minor, so I hope it doesn't bother anyone too much! The 'Underage' warning is for one minor sexual encounter when the people involved are around 15 years old. It's not big, but I thought I'd put the warning there, just in case.
> 
> Also - the title comes from this song here by Chris Rubeo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYQmyu_PEF4  
> Give it a listen! I had it playing in the background a lot during the writing process.

Hajime wouldn’t mind the commute from his parents’ house to work halfway across town if it weren’t for the bitter wind that follows him through the entrance to the subway station.  He breathes into his cupped hands to de-thaw his nose once he reaches the slightly warmer underground, but his shoulders are still stiff and he has tears flowing freely from his eyes.  Honestly, he hates winter in Sendai, and he wishes for what feels like the hundredth time since January that he had taken up his cousin’s offer to go with him to Thailand for two weeks.  Like an idiot, though, he said no, thinking that an internship during his winter break was more important than the feeling of warm sun and sand on his skin.  He tries to imagine himself at the beach instead of this dingy station, but the sound of a train screeching to a stop one floor below quickly takes him out of the fantasy.  It’s useless, anyway; he has to survive two more months before the season begins to thaw.

The train is old and clunks its way across the city, and Hajime sways with the motion, thankful that it isn’t rush hour and that he isn’t squeezed between two barely-awake old men on their way to work.  He closes his eyes, careful not to let train rock him to sleep.  He’s still freezing; the heating in these cars has never been able to fight off the sting of the wintry weather.  Hajime balls his hands in the sleeves of his coat and listens for the automated voice announce his station.

He curses when he walks out onto the street and finds fresh snow falling onto the sidewalk, but he pulls the collar of his coat closer to his neck and trudges on, desperate even for the minimal heating he’ll find in the office.  He’s too busy praying that he isn’t the first one to show up and thus responsible for starting the shitty heater when he hears a distant, “Yoo-hoo! Iwa-chan!”

When he turns his head, he’s not sure he quite believes his eyes, but it’s definitely him, waving an arm in the air like an idiot with an even more idiotic grin stretching his face.  It’s been a few years – five, he remembers – and he’s a little bigger than he used to be, but, God, it’s really him.

Hajime’s afraid to blink as he watches Oikawa bounce on the balls of his feet, waiting for the light to change so he can cross the street.  It’s amazing how much he’s grown, how broad his shoulders are when they used to be narrow enough that his brother’s hand-me-downs would slide off of them.  He’s still grinning at Hajime, almost apologetically now, as if the status of the light is his fault, and not the city’s.  He jogs across the street as soon as it changes, and Hajime can’t help the way he holds his breath when he sees his elegant movements.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt and Oikawa is standing right in front of him, a similar expression stretching his face.  Neither of them say anything, though; they’re too busy drinking in the sight of each other to come up with any kind of conversation.  Hajime absently presses his nails into the palm of his hand to see if this is all some fever dream he’s having on the subway.  When Oikawa doesn’t disappear into a puff of smoke, he has to blink a few times to process the surprise.

“You’re so much taller now,” is the first thing he says, and his chest feels tight when Oikawa’s lips twist into a self-satisfied smirk.  “What the fuck.”

“I’ve always been taller than you, Iwa-chan” Oikawa teases.  Hajime wonders if the pink of his cheeks is because of him or the wind that’s still blasting down the street.

“Yeah,” he says, and he’s still grinning stupidly.  He feels really stupid, actually, and he’s desperate to think of something, anything, that’ll stretch this moment out as long as he can.

“You look almost the same,” Oikawa says.

“Really?”

“Well,” he says, and Hajime swears he’s blushing now, “Not exactly the same - I mean, you’ve grown, but you still look like, well, _you_.”

“You, too.”

“Oh…”  The spell is broken when Hajime’s phone vibrates in his pocket; it’s Kuroo, asking him if it’s possible to pick up some breakfast along the way.

“Are you late for something?” Oikawa asks.

Hajime wants to say no, can feel the suggestion that they go somewhere to catch up rising in his throat like a hiccup, but he swallows it and reluctantly nods his head.  “I have a thing,” he says lamely.  “A - an internship,” he adds, coughing in embarrassment when the expectant expression doesn’t leave Oikawa’s face.  “Unpaid.”

The smile that breaks out on Oikawa’s face makes Hajime feel a little dizzy.  “That’s still really cool!” he says, the smile turning sly as he watches Hajime out of the corner of his eye.  

“Do… do you want to get some coffee later, though?” Hajime stumbles over his words, and he’s pretty sure he sounds like an idiot, but Oikawa is still smiling.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head. “Yeah, that sounds really great.”

**  
**

_The beginning_

Hajime first hears about Oikawa Tooru through his mom.  She’s friends with his mom since they both work as nurses at the same hospital, and when they realize their sons are the same age, Hajime’s fate is sealed.

He hears from his mom that Tooru is about the same age as him, but that isn’t enough for Hajime to like him when they meet for the first time at his house.  Tooru is a thin reed of a boy, and he isn’t shy at all, grinning over the volleyball he holds in his hands as he introduces himself.  “Hi!  I’m Tooru, and I like aliens, and volleyball, and do you have any milk bread?”

They don’t have any milk bread, but Tooru is pleased enough when he finds Hajime’s stash of video games, rifling through them without even asking permission.  Hajime does his best to stay calm, but then Tooru sits back with a heavy sigh and complains about the lack of games that take place in space.

“But it’s okay,” he says, grinning quickly in Hajime’s direction.  “I have enough for the both of us at home.”

The offhand comment sends indignation flaring up in Hajime - no one has so blatantly insulted his carefully curated collection, and Hajime grinds his teeth as Tooru makes a selection, his mom’s voice reminding him to _Be nice, he’s just moved schools, and he doesn’t have any friends his own age yet._

They play Super Smash Brothers, and Hajime quickly realizes that Tooru is as loud as he is rude.  He’s a crybaby, too, throwing a tantrum and almost smashing Hajime’s controller into pieces when he loses.  It’s annoying, and Hajime wants to kick him out of his house and never see him again.  He decides that he’s never disliked anyone as much as he dislikes Oikawa Tooru; in fact, he’d even go so far as to say that he _hates_ Oikawa Tooru.

It’s forever until Tooru’s mom comes back to pick him up, but when she does, Hajime has never been more relieved.  He can’t wait for Tooru to leave, so he’s surprised when Tooru’s suddenly giving him a hug and saying, “Let’s hang out again sometime soon, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime pushes him away.  “Don’t call me that!”

Tooru’s cherubic face crumbles, and Hajime does his best not to feel any remorse.  Their moms titter to each other over the boys, and Hajime’s pretty sure he can hear them setting up another playdate.  He hates everything.

“Bye, Iwa-chan!” Tooru says as he leaves, his cheeks in high color as he waves over his shoulder.  “I’ll miss you!”

Hajime doesn’t answer him, looking away instead as his face heats up with embarrassment.

*

Hajime doesn’t know what he did wrong to deserve this, but after their first encounter, Tooru turns into a pretty permanent fixture in his life.  He finds out that he moved to Sendai because of his dad’s job, that he used to live just outside of Tokyo, that he likes pink even though he tells everyone his favorite color is green, and that he’s an absolute nut for volleyball.  He glues himself to Hajime’s side whenever he can, and before Hajime knows it, they’re best friends.

Tooru celebrates by weaving crowns of flowers from Hajime’s mom’s carefully crafted flower beds out front.  Hajime tries his best to ignore the way his heart thuds when Tooru leans in to place it on his head, and the excitement shining in Tooru’s eyes definitely doesn’t make Hajime want to smile, too.  

“Now we’re best friends forever,” Tooru announces, and suddenly he’s shy, avoiding Hajime’s eyes by picking some leaves of grass by his knee.  

“Forever.”  The word’s out of Hajime’s mouth before he has time to think about it, but the smile that appears on Tooru’s face is enough to keep him from being embarrassed.

*

School begins, and by some gross twist of fate, they’re in the same class.  Tooru sits in the back while Hajime sits in the front, and during lunch he accompanies Hajime to the cafeteria even though his mom makes all of his lunches.  Hajime’s friends call Tooru clingy and needy behind his back, and Hajime tells them to shut up.  Some of them don’t, and Hajime has to go to the assistant principal’s office for the first time in his life when he punches one of his friends before school one day.  His friend managed to get his own hit in before a teacher pulled them apart, and Tooru’s eyes go wide when he sees the sunken bruise around Hajime’s eye.

“Why did you do it?” he asks after school.  He started walking with Hajime to his house every day since they both go home to empty houses, and they’ve found it’s nicer to have company than being alone - even if that company is someone as annoying as Tooru.

Hajime shrugs and frowns at the sidewalk.  “Hanamaki was being an asshole,” he says.  “That’s all.”

Tooru tuts.  “You still shouldn’t have punched him,” he says, and then he’s holding up his own fist.  “You should have waited for me to show up!   _I_ wouldn’t have gotten caught, like you did.”

Hajime punches him in the arm.  “Shut up!”

Tooru squeals, and tries to pretend to cry, but Hajime knows better by now.  He ignores him, petulantly kicking a stick and sending it skittering a meter or so in front of him.  

Completely fine now, Tooru leans forward to look up at Hajime’s disgruntled face.  “I can clean that up for you when we get to your house if you want.”

Something like fondness elbows its way into Hajime’s chest.  “The nurse already did,” he says, swallowing a weird feeling he thinks he’s too young to understand.  “Don’t worry.”

Tooru nods and looks down at his feet.  Hajime thinks he looks disappointed, but that doesn’t make any sense.  “Okay.”

**  
**

_now_

Kuroo’s pouting when Hajime arrives to their small, cramped office with no food, but it quickly dissolves into curiosity when he sees the goofy smile that’s still pulling at Hajime’s lips.

“Good morning, sunshine!” he says.  “What’s got you so perky today?”

“I ran into someone I haven’t seen in a long time,” Hajime says.

“Like an ex?”  Kuroo’s jaw drops.  “I didn’t know you had that in you, Iwaizumi!”

Hajime shakes his head.  “No.”  His phone feels heavy in his pocket with Oikawa’s new number recently keyed into the contacts.  “Just an old friend.”

“Like Kenma’s just an old friend of mine?” Kuroo asks, the playful curvature of his eyebrows verging on dangerous.  “Sure.”

“It’s not like that,” Hajime says.  He puts his bag down and takes a seat, the memory of Tooru’s smile - fresh, white-teethed, alive and well - flashing through his head.

Kuroo stretches his arms over his head with a loud, guttural groan.  “Whatever you say, dude,” he says.  “Whatever you say.”

*

Oikawa waits for him in a cafe a few blocks away from the library.  He smiles when he spots Hajime at the entrance, and Hajime’s pretty sure the wattage from it actually makes the room a little brighter.  It makes Hajime’s legs go a bit wobbly, too, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to go very far until he’s safely seated at the table across from him

“Hey,” he says.  He feels out of breath, even though the walk over barely lasted ten minutes.

“Hey.”  Oikawa’s watching Hajime carefully, and Hajime averts his eyes out of something not unlike embarrassment.  He shifts his attention to Oikawa’s hands, to the long, elegant fingers that are fiddling with the handle of the mug in front of him.

“I didn’t know you liked coffee,” he says.

“I don’t,” Oikawa says.  He lifts the drink up in a mock toast.  “Chai tea latte.”

Hajime smiles.  He gets his coffee black, and as he adds a packet of sugar, he asks, “What brings you here?”  He risks a glance up as he stirs; Oikawa is still watching him, and his insides feel heavy.

“I’m going to university here,” he says with a small smile that’s equal parts polite and proud.

Hajime’s eyebrows go up with surprise.  “A good school?”

Oikawa snorts, but even that looks graceful on him as he covers his mouth and peeks over his hand at Hajime.  “God, no,” he says.  “I’m not smart enough for any of those places.”

“Volleyball?”

“Of course.”

Hajime smiles again.  “Of course.”

“What about you?” Oikawa asks.  “You’re studying hard?”

Almost immediately, Hajime’s cheeks go warm.  “W-well, kind of…”  He looks down at the mug in his hands.  “I’m on track for med school, but it’s still kind of early to tell, and I don’t know if I’ll even make the right scores to get into the right schools…”  He laughs lamely.  “I mean,” he says, “I am studying hard, but I don’t know if it’s all worth it or not, you know?”

“Hey.”  Oikawa gently kicks him under the table.  “You were, like, top of the class in middle school. You’re super smart, okay?”

Hajime almost chokes on his coffee.  “Yeah, in _middle school_ ,” he says.

“Well, you’re still a nerd,” Oikawa mumbles.

“W-where are you living?” Hajime asks, desperate to change the topic.  “Are your parents here, too?”

“Nope,” Oikawa says.  “Just me.”

“Really?”

Oikawa nods.  “And my older brother got married and has a kid now, so I’m living in student housing. Pretty sad for someone our age, huh?”

“You haven’t found a rich older woman to support you yet?” Hajime teases.

He swears the comment makes a blush bloom across the skin of Oikawa’s cheeks.  “N-no, I’m still on the market.”

Hajime takes a thoughtful sip of his drink.  “That’s too bad.”

Oikawa laughs, and then he’s fiddling with the handle of his mug again, a bundle of nervous energy.  “You know,” he starts, “since I got here, I’ve wanted to see you so badly.  Every time I turn a corner, I find myself hoping you’ll be here.”  He laughs.  “I guess that’s a bit fanciful of me, isn’t it?”

“Why didn’t you come to my house?” Hajime asks quietly.

Oikawa looks away, purses his lips.  “I didn’t know if you wanted to see me,” he says.

Hajime finds it hard to breathe.  The air of the shop is suddenly far too humid, and the scent of coffee has become too cloying, almost suffocating.  Oikawa is studying his hands in his lap, like he’s afraid to see Hajime’s reaction.

“I…” Hajime swallows the nerves that had started building up in his throat.  “I always want to see you.  I missed you.”

Oikawa blinks, and then he’s carefully watching Hajime, the corners of his lips twitching with a smile.  “I missed you, too.”

**  
**

_a little bit after the beginning_

The summer of their last year of elementary school brings boiling heat, and it would be enough to make Hajime go crazy if it wasn’t for Tooru’s apparent obsession with ice pops.  They eat them between rounds of Mario Kart, careful not to get the sticky juice all over Tooru’s prized controllers; they eat them on the back porch, where they watch Shrimpy, Tooru’s small, orange fluffball of a dog run in circles; they eat them walking down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of brightly colored spots dripping behind them; they eat them at Hajime’s house, too, after he convinces his mom that Tooru’s family has the right idea on frozen confections.

They eat enough that their mouths turn an indistinguishable shade of purple that Tooru says makes Hajime look like a zombie.  He says it with a smile, his cheeks pushing his eyes into cute half-moons.  Hajime thinks Tooru could be wearing makeup, with the way his lips look saturated with color, as if stained with lipstick instead of high-fructose corn syrup.  He thinks it’s beautiful.

They get separated when Hajime’s mom puts him into summer classes.  Tooru remains free for the break, and it’s torture sitting through lessons on Algebra and Edo history with the battered A/C rumbling in the back of the classroom as Hajime tries not to fall asleep.  The flies that come in through the open windows are more interesting than the teacher’s droning, and he watches them twitch across the windowsill next to his desk instead of taking notes.

He’s surprised by just how much he misses Tooru during the few hours of class he has.  He doesn’t know why - Tooru is annoying, and loud, and he cries every time Hajime threatens to punch him, which happens almost every time they see each other.  Tooru shows up every day to walk him home, though, and usually they hang out until he has to leave for dinner, but Hajime keeps thinking about the proud line of Tooru’s shoulders, the grace of his hands when he tosses his volleyball into the air.  Hajime thinks about his wide smile, too, how open and warm it is, how his lips slide over his small, even teeth, the Cupid’s bow shape of his upper lip squished between the swell of his cheeks.

He knows something is wrong when the sight of Tooru waiting with his bike outside the school makes Hajime’s heart feel swollen, like his tonsils did last winter when he had strep throat.  It feels heavy in his chest when Tooru smiles and waves, and it thuds uncomfortably when he falls into step beside him, his bike clicking as it rolls between them.

The sun brings out auburn highlights in Tooru’s hair.  As Hajime squints against the bright light, Tooru looks radiant, like an angel, something from another world, and Hajime wonders if he could ever be good enough for someone like him.

*

They’re hanging out at the neighborhood pool when Tooru asks Hajime if he likes anyone.

“W-what do you mean?” Hajime tries to calm his heart as he treads water.  They’re in the deep end, and he isn’t as strong of a swimmer as Tooru, but there’s no way in hell he’d ever admit that, especially since Tooru would only lord it over him.

Tooru floats on his back, and his eyes dart to the side to watch Hajime carefully.  “Like, at school or whatever,” he says.  “It’s okay if you don’t.  I’m just curious.”

“I - well, I…”  Tooru does a sudden backflip that startles Hajime, and when he re-emerges from the water, Hajime can see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes.

“You what?”

“I don’t know,” Hajime blurts, and he quickly dunks himself into the water before Tooru can see the blush forming on his cheeks.

**  
**

_now_

Hajime doesn’t see Oikawa for a few days.  He assumes he’s busy with volleyball practice, as well as the social life he’s undoubtedly built up since returning to Sendai.  He doesn’t actually know how long he’s been back; Oikawa had seemed reluctant to tell Hajime, as if it was a longer period of time than he’d want him to believe.  Hajime finds himself thinking about Oikawa every time his mind starts to linger - does he still wrinkle his nose at the smell of natto? Does he still collect alien plushies? Is he just as obnoxious and loud as he had been before leaving, or did he grow out of that wherever he went?  He had _seemed_ more mature, but Hajime could never been sure with him.  Hajime thinks about these things on the train rides to and from school, between home and the office, when he’s sitting at his desk, an unfinished spreadsheet open on his laptop.

When he tells his mom about Oikawa, her smile is polite, but her lips remain stiff.  “How long is he back?” she asks.

Hajime shrugs.  It’s just the two of them for dinner, since his dad works late this time of year.  “For a while, probably.  He’s going to school here.”

“Does he live nearby?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve only seen him once.”

“Maybe it’s good if you don’t see him too much,” she says, and when Hajime looks up from his food, her eyes are sad.

“I know what I’m doing, Mom,” he says.  “It’s okay, I promise.”

He doesn’t think she believes him, though, and that leaves a sour taste in his mouth that lingers long after the meal is finished.

*

Things look up, though, when he gets a text from Oikawa at the end of the week:

_Coffee again? :)))_

The message sends a thrill of excitement through him.  Kuroo notices, and he spins around in his chair to throw a wad of paper at his head.  “Old friend who isn’t anything significant?” he asks.

“Fuck off,” Hajime says, too pleased by Oikawa’s initiation of contact to be too bothered by his coworker and friend.

“Kenma was asking if you wanted to do something later next week,” Kuroo says.

Hajime looks at him skeptically.  “ _Kenma_?  Or you?”

“Dude, no, seriously, Kenma did.”  Kuroo frowns, always ready to jump to his boyfriend’s defense.  “He’s not as antisocial as everyone thinks.”

“Sure.”  Hajime punches in his login information slowly, methodically, his mind full of Oikawa.  “Just tell me when.”

“Bring your friend, too, if you want,” Kuroo adds.  “The more the merrier.”

“Kenma would _not_ say that.”

“Fine,” Kuroo admits, “But still.  Bring him.  Kenma can handle _one_ uninvited guest.”

“Just don’t invite Lev or Bokuto and he’ll be fine,” Hajime says, his voice flat as he tries to read his inbox while maintaining the conversation.

“I can’t wait to meet this mystery person,” Kuroo says, and when Hajime risks a glance in his direction, he has a sly smile twisting his features.  

Hajime looks at him, unamused.  “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, don’t.”

**  
**

_a little bit more after the beginning_

Tooru joins the volleyball club when school starts again, and of course, Hajime has to, too.  He tries to put up a fight, but, as with everything else, Tooru wears him down with a combination of whining and meticulous provocation.  

Their first practice doesn’t go as horribly as Hajime had feared, but he still gets hit in the head several times, and most of them are Tooru’s fault.  By the end of it, every muscle is sore, his palms are a burning shade of red, and hot-blooded excitement rushes through his veins.  He’d had fun - he could still feel the smack of the ball hitting his hand, the swift connection of Tooru’s tosses, the thrill of scoring a point against the other team.  Hajime hadn’t expected the sport to come so readily to him, but with Tooru there, he feels like the two of them could go on to win the Olympics, if they wanted to.

Not that he’d ever admit that in front of Tooru, though.

But it isn’t hard to let Tooru’s enthusiasm wash over him, and it isn’t hard to let himself get swept up by the current.  Volleyball all but takes over their lives, but Hajime doesn’t complain.  Tooru is a tidal wave, a monsoon, a force of nature to be reckoned with; Hajime is just… well, himself.  He doesn’t know what it is that makes Tooru cling to him like a stubborn mold that screams the Pokemon theme song on the way to school every morning, but part of him is glad that he was the one whose mom Tooru’s mom befriended at work.  Tooru is special, and Hajime is secretly glad that he’s the one who gets to witness it all firsthand.  

Not that he’d ever admit that to Tooru, either.  Never.

*

Later, towards the end of the term, Tooru gets sick, and because he’s horrible and won’t ever leave Hajime alone, Hajime catches the bug, too.  Hajime refuses to let Tooru come over so they can suffer together, exiling him as a form of punishment for getting Hajime sick.  That doesn’t stop Tooru from calling his house every hour, though, and so Hajime finds himself glued to the phone the entire weekend, listening to Tooru sniffle and sneeze into the receiver as he tries to pay attention to the anime Tooru is also watching on the TV at his house.

Hajime even has to bring the phone into his room when he goes to bed.  Tooru refuses to let him hang up, calling back immediately every time Hajime tries to test him, until he drives Hajime’s mom crazy enough that he ends up _not_ being allowed to hang up until Tooru is satisfied.  Hajime ends up curled up on his bed with the phone cradled against his ear, Tooru’s gently wheezing voice a whisper in his head.

“I can’t sleep, Iwa-chan,” he mumbles, even as Hajime can hear a staticky yawn over the line.  “I threw up on my favorite Sergeant Frog plushie and Mom took it away to wash it…”  He sighs into the phone, and Hajime can tell he’s probably about to cry.  “I can’t sleep without Sergeant Frog, and since he’s gone, I was wondering if you could tell me a story, or something…”

Hajime hates this.  He hates Tooru, for being a baby, for being selfish, for needing Hajime as much as he does.  What he hates the most, though, is how much he wishes he wasn’t also dying from the same illness so he could run the few blocks over to Tooru’s house and take the place of Sergeant Frog.  

“Uh.”  He clears his throat of all the phlegm that’s accumulated.  “Well.  Is there anything you want it to be about?”

“Make it about me, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime grinds his teeth, and he does everything he can to forget the tenderness he had felt welling up under his heart just a few seconds ago.  “Once upon a time,” he bites out, and he knows Tooru is smiling at his frustrated tone, “There was a boy.”  He takes a deep breath.  “And his name was Naruto.”

“Iwa-chan!”  Tooru’s voice cracks with outrage and indignation.  “What the heck!”

“Naruto was already the best ninja in the whole world,” Hajime continues, ignoring Tooru’s angry squeaks, “so he wanted to try something new.  He decided to learn how to play volleyball.”

“This is a _horrible_ story,” Tooru whines.  

“Stop interrupting,” Hajime snaps.  “Naruto tried to find someone to play volleyball with him, but no one wanted to, because everyone thought he was annoying.”

“You’re just being mean now!”

Hajime smiles despite himself.  “That’s it,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice harsh and not full of fondness.  “I’m done.  No more story.”

“But - ”

“I’m gonna hang up - ”

“NO!”

If Hajime had been sleepy at all, he’s wide awake now, Tooru’s shrill screech ringing in his ear.  

“Stay, Iwa-chan.”  Tooru’s quiet now, vulnerable.  “Please.”

Hajime’s grip around the phone is clammy.  “What do you want?” he asks.  He can hear the multiple meanings behind the words, and he hopes Tooru can, too.

He hears rustling over the phone, and then Tooru’s coughing from far away.  Hajime waits patiently, and when he returns, he rasps, “Sing something for me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Hajime swallows.  Stupid, stupid Tooru.  “What song?”

“You pick.”  Tooru doesn’t sound smug at all, only relieved.

It takes Hajime a minute or so to think of something, but when he starts humming the first few lines of Girls’ Generation’s “Gee,” Tooru lets out a snort that quickly becomes another fit of coughing.

“Jeez, are you okay?” Hajime asks when he returns to the phone.  “I didn’t think that would make you die.”

“I didn’t think you would choose _that_ song.”

“I guess I’m full of surprises,” Hajime says with a smile.  

“Sing it again,” Tooru orders.  “I promise I won’t laugh this time.”

Hajime complies, and even though his voice is just as rough from coughing as Tooru’s is, the sound of it seems to make Tooru relax.  His breathing slows, and after a yawn or two that make the corners of Hajime’s mouth feel ready to stretch with yawns of their own, Hajime hears a soft snore rattling with phlegm.  

He doesn’t hang up when he finally closes his own eyes; instead, he keeps the phone next to his ear and lets Tooru’s deep, even breathing lull him to sleep.

It’s peaceful.

**  
**

_now_

Oikawa’s bouncing on the balls of his feet again as they wait to be buzzed into Kuroo’s building, antsy with anticipation.  It’s snowing again, as well, and the white flakes look like down feathers as they settle on Oikawa’s fluffy hair.  Hajime tries his best not to stare, but when Oikawa peeks over at him with a snowflake balancing precariously on the edge of an eyelash, he’s beautiful enough to make the air disappear from Hajime’s lungs.

“These are your friends from work?” he asks.  His voice sounds totally normal - happy, even, but Hajime can hear the nervous edge behind his words, the insecurities behind the bright smile and sparkling eyes.  Hajime has to stop himself from reaching over and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.  

“One of them is,” he says, looking away to buzz Kuroo again.  He’s starting to lose feeling in the toes of his boots.  “The other is his - ” He stops himself, suddenly self-conscious of the weight of Oikawa’s eyes on him.  “His roommate.”

Oikawa arches a delicate brow.  “You hesitated.”

Hajime coughs, more uncomfortable than he’d like to be.  Oikawa feels really warm next to him - too warm, too close, but Hajime thinks that’s all in his head; there’s no way he can feel any kind of body heat in the bitter cold surrounding them.  “I’m not sure who else they invited,” he says as a smug smile stretches Oikawa’s wind-chapped lips.  “Kenma likes to keep things pretty low-key, but Kuroo has a habit of letting things snowball - ”

He deflates in relief when Kuroo’s voice crackles to life over the intercom.  “Iwaizumi!  Hey, man!”

“Let us the fuck in,” Hajime barks, jumping up and down to fight off the cold.  

“Us?”  Kuroo’s voice sharpens with curiosity.  “Does that mean - ”

“Buzz us in,” Hajime snaps.  “My balls are going to freeze if you keep me out here any longer.”

Kuroo laughs as the door pops open.  “Always a charmer, Iwaizumi,” he chortles.  “No wonder the girls can’t leave you alone.”

Hajime avoids the curious look that comment gets from Oikawa.  “Let’s just get this over with,” he huffs under his breath.

*

It’s not a surprise when Oikawa blends almost seamlessly into Hajime’s group of friends. Hajime’s a little jealous, sure, because it took him forever to get invited to video games and drinks at Kuroo’s apartment, but Oikawa’s always been the most charming person Hajime had ever had the misfortune to meet.  The only thing that makes Hajime feel a little better about the situation is the fact that Kenma remains wary of his new acquaintance; he stays in the kitchen when Hajime and Oikawa arrive, and when Kuroo tries to introduce him, he manages to wriggle away as fast as he can, using the snacks he’d been preparing as an excuse.

Bokuto is there, too, and he greets Hajime with a loud yell and a giant hug.  “It’s been forever, man!” he says, ignoring the way Hajime’s face twists in displeasure at the affectionate gesture.  

“I saw you last week,” Hajime says.  Bokuto’s always warm, and always a little sweaty, but Hajime’s already uncomfortable with Oikawa hovering over his shoulder, quietly taking in and analyzing everything he sees.  He doesn’t know _what_ Oikawa will do with the information, but he knows that it’s best to keep as much as he can away from his prying eyes.  It’s a matter of principle, really.  

Bokuto spots Oikawa then, and he leans in to stage-whisper, “Kuroo didn’t say you met someone!”

Hajime pushes him away.  “It’s not like that!”

His owlish eyebrows shoot up his forehead.  “No?”

Oikawa decides to choose this moment to introduce himself, and Hajime wants to sink into the floor as he leans closer to Bokuto, cutting through Hajime’s personal space as he holds out a hand.  “Oikawa Tooru.  Iwa-chan and I were best friends in middle school.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows rise even further at the nickname, and it would look almost comical if Hajime wasn’t regretting every decision he’s made that has led him to this point.  “That’s adorable.”

Hajime pushes past the two of them then, eager to escape this mess.  He should’ve known his friends would read too much into Oikawa’s presence - it’s confusing, he’s sure, that someone as coiffed, elegant, and charming as Oikawa would be close enough with blunt, irritable, and practical Hajime that _Iwa-chan_ was able to happen, but he also knows that for a long time now, his friends have been eager for Hajime to gain a significant other.  His singular status has become almost notorious among his circle of friends, to the point where they nag him about finding a partner more than his mom.  

He relaxes a little after he has his first drink.  Oikawa sits next to him on the sofa, a little too close, a little too comfortable with their shoulders rubbing together, their knees bumping into each other.  When Bokuto wedges himself in between Hajime and Kuroo, Hajime is all too aware of the warmth of Oikawa’s body pressed against his, the current of electricity he feels pulsating beneath his skin at the crucial points of contact.  Hajime barely registers when Kuroo triumphantly talks about the beat-up Game Cube he’d found while cleaning out his old room at home, and he hardly notices what they choose to play until Oikawa is leaning in close and whispering, “We played this game when we first met.  Remember, Iwa-chan?”

Goosebumps shiver across the back of Hajime’s neck.  His grip tightens on his beer, and he looks at the TV screen, where the logo for Super Smash Brothers explodes out of the credits, much to the delight of his friends around him.  All Hajime can think about, though, is the heavy heat settling on the side of his face where Oikawa’s expectant gaze falls on him.

It’s all he can do to swallow the bundle of nerves that have gathered in his throat.  “Y-yeah,” he says.  “I do.”

Oikawa is subtle, but Hajime can feel him lean in closer an infinitesimal amount.  “You beat me to smithereens every round.”

A tense laugh escapes Hajime.  “And you threw a temper tantrum and almost broke my controller.”

They’re interrupted by an actual controller landing in Hajime’s lap.  “Oi, lovebirds,” Kuroo snaps.  “We’re playing.”

They jump apart, blushing.  It’s really hard for Hajime to tear his eyes away from Oikawa’s flustered face, but Bokuto’s elbow in his side makes him focus.

“It’s not like that, my ass,” Bokuto chuckles to himself, watching Hajime out of the corner of his eye.  

Embarrassment and irritation flare up in Hajime’s gut like indigestion.  “I’m gonna kick your ass,” he growls.  

“If you say so, _Iwa-chan_.”

*

Hajime performs terribly, and he blames it on Oikawa and the fact that he exists to make Hajime’s life more difficult than it needs to be.  When he finally relinquishes the controller to Kenma, Oikawa gives him a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

“It’s okay, Iwa-chan,” he says.  “You’ve never been that good at this game, anyway.”

Hajime glares at him, but he doesn’t have time to bark out anything insulting before Kuroo saunters over.  He sits down on the floor in front of them while everyone else starts a new round of smashing.

“So,” he says, his sharp eyes flicking between the two of them.  “How do you guys know each other?”

Hajime’s mind goes blank with panic, and his heart races as he tries to think of the most evasive way he can put it.  He isn’t even sure he knows _what_ he can say, anyway.  He and Oikawa had parted so abruptly, before anything had even had a chance to happen -

“Childhood best friends,” Oikawa says, the smile he saves for people he dislikes plastered across his face.  “I ended up going to a different high school, though, so Iwa-chan and I were separated.”

Hajime nods.  Yeah, that.

Kuroo’s eyes narrow just a tiny bit, but it’s enough to set Hajime on pins and needles; he isn’t satisfied.  “So… it doesn’t mean anything that Iwaizumi has been acting weird about it the whole time, then.  Right?”

Hajime’s fist clench in his lap; he knows Kuroo is trying to provoke him, and he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right in his suspicions.  Kuroo’s always been nosey, a button-pusher, and Hajime realizes that he really does always attract a certain type.  It’s cosmic irony at its finest, but Hajime has enough on his plate already, and he doesn’t need to question the fact that the best friends he makes are all assholes.

“Shut the fuck up, Kuroo,” he says.  “Stop butting in on my dark, troubled past.”

Oikawa looks at him, a question in his eyes, but he doesn’t have a chance to say anything when Kenma appears behind Kuroo, his hands floating over his shoulders.

“You always have to start something dramatic at these things.”  Kenma’s voice is soft, with a tenderness Hajime feels like the rest of the room shouldn’t be privy too.  Oikawa seems tense next to him, as if he’s suddenly really uncomfortable.

Oikawa only gets more tense when Kuroo tilts his head back to look at Kenma, his eyes no longer as hard and sharp as they’d been only a second ago.  Kenma’s hands squeeze his shoulders, and his face melts with warm affection.  “Sorry,” he says, the smile on his face belying much more than Hajime’s lie about them could cover.  “You know I can’t help it.”

“Stop making Hajime uncomfortable,” Kenma chides.  “Or he’ll never come over again, and I’ll be stuck with Kotaro and Shoyou forever.”

“Right,” Kuroo laughs.  “Because _that_ would be horrible.”

He stands up, and Kenma shudders next to him in horror.  “It _would_.”

Kuroo holds up a hand in a half-hearted salute to Hajime and Oikawa.  “Looks like I’ll have to tune in next time,” he says, his lips moving with an ironic twist.  

He leaves with Kenma in tow, Kenma’s hand held delicately in his.  Oikawa turns to Hajime with a wry look.

“ _Don’t_ say anything,” Hajime says.  

*

“Well,” Oikawa says as they step out of the building together, the cold even more bitter than before as it cuts through their coats.  “That was interesting.”

“I’m sorry Kuroo dug so much.  He can be an ass sometimes.”  Hajime makes a mental note to strangle his friend as soon as he gets to the office on Monday.

A smile flits across Oikawa’s lips, revealing his beautiful, even, white teeth.  “No, it’s okay,” he says.  “He’s just being a good friend.”  The smile falls away.  “A better friend than I usually am, at least.”

Hajime sniffs, a weird emotion threatening to overwhelm him.  “You’re fine,” he mumbles.

The back of Oikawa’s hand brushes against his knuckles.  “Thank you.”

“H-how far away is your place?” Hajime chokes out.  “I could… walk you…”

Oikawa’s face brightens, and Hajime forgets how to breathe.  The smile returns, a light enters his eyes, and he looks genuinely pleased, something Hajime doesn’t think he’s ever seen often enough.  Color warms his cheeks, too; he looks almost shy as he blinks down to the ground, like he doesn’t know what to make of Hajime’s offer.  “That… that’d be really nice.”

Hajime tries not to feel flustered, but the way his heart crashes against his chest as Oikawa peeks up at him from under his eyelashes has him struggling to keep his thoughts straight.  

“It’s not too far away from here,” Oikawa says, pulling his coat tighter as a brisk wind passes over them.  “Just a few blocks.”Hajime grunts that he heard him, afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he actually opens it to speak.  They walk side by side, Oikawa’s shoulder brushing against Hajime’s every few steps.  Aside from the occasional car passing by in the street, the world belongs more or less only to them, and the white puffs of air that escape from their lungs.  The dark sky opens wide overhead despite the buildings around them, and the snowfall from earlier glows in the streetlights, crunches under their feet.

“You know,” Oikawa says, looking up at the few stars that are visible with a glimmer in his eye.  “This is pretty romantic, isn’t it, Iwa-chan?  You walking me back to my place on such a pretty winter’s night.”

Hajime shrugs, even though Oikawa isn’t looking at him.  “I guess.”

The laugh that comes from Oikawa stabs through Hajime’s heart like a very large needle.  When he looks, Oikawa’s smile dazzles him.  “You were always so funny, Iwa-chan,” he says fondly.  

Hajime rolls his eyes to hide the embarrassment flooding through him.  “And you were always stupid.”

“So mean!”  Oikawa’s hand hits his arm, but it has none of the strength that always went into his famous jump-serves; Hajime barely feels it.  

“You’ve always been such a fucking baby,” he laughs.  

Oikawa gapes, outraged.  “No, I haven’t!”

“You cried all the time when we were kids!  You cried the first day we met!”

“I can’t believe you’re being so cruel,” Oikawa sniffs, looking up to the sky for help.  “All I am is nice to you, and this is how you repay me.”

Hajime knocks into him with his elbow.  “You’re the only person on the planet who’d describe you as nice.”

Oikawa scoffs, but when his eyes find Hajime’s, they’re sparkling with something that makes the pit of Hajime’s stomach squirm.  “There are a lot of things about me that are _nice_ ,” he says, and Hajime’s mouth goes dry.  

Oikawa’s eyebrows shoot up smugly.  “See?” he says.  “I’m right.”

Hajime looks away with a scoff of his own.  “You’re so full of shit.”

“Remember when you called me Shittykawa?” Oikawa asks, his voice full of nostalgia.

Hajime snorts.  “And Trash-kawa.”

“And Ass-kawa.”

A wistful sigh.  “Those were the days.”

Suddenly, Oikawa stops, and clears his throat.  “This is me.”

Hajime looks up at the building.  It isn’t much, but he supposes that student housing never really is.

“Uh.”  Oikawa blinks at him, and Hajime wants so desperately to go up with him, not even to do anything, just simply keep talking, keep seeing Oikawa’s smile a bit longer.  But something holds him back.

“Are you okay going back by yourself at this hour?” Oikawa asks, his voice warm and soft.  “There could be ice.”

Hajime swallows.  “I - I think so.”

Oikawa steps closer, and Hajime steps a little closer, too.  Just half a step.  Involuntary.  Close enough that he can note the length of Oikawa’s eyelashes as he looks up at him.  “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.  Oikawa leans in closer, and Hajime’s heart is beating in his throat, his stomach, his fingertips.  

There are snowflakes in his hair, and his cheeks are pink from the cold, and he parts his lips only just slightly, and Hajime tries to look away but he can’t bring himself to do it, mesmerized by the prettiness of Oikawa’s face, the warmth of his gaze, the pinkness of his -

Oikawa sucks his lower lip under his teeth, his gaze dropping down to Hajime’s mouth before flicking back to his eyes.  Hajime’s pulse is hammering in his ears, his stomach twisting with anticipation as Oikawa says, “I would ask you if you wanted to stay for some coffee or tea, but it’s pretty late, and I don’t want you to get stuck here...”

Hajime wants to reach up to hold Oikawa’s coat lapel, to pull him closer, to rest a hand on the beautiful porcelain of his cheek and feel the chapped skin of his lips against his own.  He wants to feel the snow melt against Hajime’s heat, wants to feel the soft feathery sigh of Oikawa’s acceptance as he, too, melts under Hajime’s hands.  He wants to hold Oikawa in his arms, to feel his heart beat a staccato rhythm against Hajime’s chest.  He wants to find out how sweet Oikawa’s kiss tastes, how it _has_ to taste.

But he stays put, frozen to his spot by crippling hesitation and self-doubt.  He hates himself, and he hates Oikawa for being the reason he feels this way, but he hates more than anything else the feeling of a gaping hole between them, the feeling that no matter what, they’ll never be able to bridge that gap, to stitch the wound back up, make it whole again.

Oikawa steps back, and disappointment floods Hajime’s chest, his entire body.

“I guess I’ll be going up, then,” he says, and Hajime thinks he looks a little disappointed, too.  “Don’t freeze to death on your way home.”

“Yeah…”

Oikawa raises his hand, wiggles his fingers.  False cheer.  Forced.  “Toodles, Iwa-chan!”

Then he’s disappearing up the stairs, all pink cheeks and wind-blown hair, and Hajime feels like the biggest fuck-up in the world.

**  
**

_a lot more after the beginning_

In their second year of middle school, Hajime gets a girlfriend.

Tooru gets a girlfriend, too, but that’s hardly a surprise.  Every girl in their year - no, the entire _school_ \- has fallen under his spell.  His beautiful face, his beautiful hair, his easy-going attitude that makes everyone feel like they have a chance, even though no one loves Tooru more than Tooru loves himself.

It irritates Hajime so, _so_ much.

What irritates Hajime even more is the fact that they can never go through a single volleyball practice without a bunch of girls crowding the sidelines, jostling for Tooru’s attention.  Tooru caters to them, all winks and smiles, and when Hajime yells at him to focus, he shrugs and says, “Jealousy isn’t very becoming on you, Iwa-chan.”

But what irritates him the most, though, is how shocked and outraged Tooru had been when Hajime told him about the confession.

“She _what_?”  Tooru’s mouth hung open stupidly, and his eyebrows furrowed together, almost as if he was angry.  It would have been hilarious if Hajime hadn’t felt so insulted.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he snapped.  “Why should _you_ care?”

Oikawa stared at him for a moment, but then he looked away, huffed, and crossed his arms.  With a sulky look out of the corner of his eye, he grumbled, “How did _you_ get a girlfriend before _me_?”

Hajime’s answer had been a fist in his side.

Tooru had gotten a girlfriend for himself the next day, and when Hajime saw him holding a girl’s hand, the smug curl of his lips had made Hajime’s gut twist uncomfortably.  He didn’t know what else he had expected; _of course_ Tooru would do whatever he could to stay a step ahead of Hajime.  Tooru was childish, vindictive, and insecure, and he never, _ever_ came in second place.  Hajime had been an idiot to think he wouldn’t try to turn this into another competition.

And it _is_ a competition, except Hajime doesn’t want to participate.  He hadn’t even given Yuki a definitive answer before Tooru had picked up the first girl that confessed to him next, and now he’s stuck in a situation he’d never wanted for himself to begin with.  Every day at lunch the next week, Tooru viciously compares the bento each of their girlfriends have made for them, always concluding that Hanako’s panda rice rolls are far superior to Yuki’s octopus sausages.  Hanako leaves notes for Tooru, too, full of hearts and smileys and cute chibi drawings of them holding hands.  Yuki places heart-shaped pieces of ham among the sausages, and every morning before they separate for class, she gives Hajime’s hand a squeeze and tells him, “I’m glad you like me, too!” before running off in embarrassment.  Even so, all of it makes Hajime decidedly uncomfortable.  He doesn’t know how to explain it to her without making her cry, though.

Hajime doesn’t really know _why_ he’s so uncomfortable, either.  He’s afraid to tell Tooru about it, afraid he’ll laugh and say something like, “This is why no girl will _actually_ like you, Iwa-chan.”  He’s worried that Tooru will scoff, that Tooru will roll his eyes, call Hajime lame, and leave him to his depressive thoughts in favor of going to the park with Hanako and showing off the jump serve he’s finally succeeded in developing.

Fortunately, he doesn’t see Yuki much outside of school.  She lives with her grandmother on the other side of town, and neither of them have enough pocket money to pay for the commute and whatever they might eat or do together. So, Hajime stays home, hitting a volleyball against the side of his house while Tooru brags about how successful _his_ relationship is.

“She just _gets_ me, you know?” he says before spiking the ball at Hajime’s feet.  “I think it’s pretty serious.”

“You’re thirteen,” Hajime deadpans, kicking the ball across the yard before Tooru can pick it up.  “It’s impossible to be serious.”

Tooru makes an ugly face and sticks his tongue out at Hajime.  “You’re just jealous because Yuki isn’t as cool as Hanako.”

Aggravation wells up inside of Hajime like magma ready to erupt from a volcano.  It takes everything in him not to tackle Tooru to the ground and rub his face in the dirt.  “Shut _up_ , Tooru.”

Tooru stares at Hajime defiantly. “Why don’t you make me?”

Hajime looks at him, at his spindly arms, his bony knees, the awkward jut of his shoulders.  His growing Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, his hair that sticks up at crazy angles.  Large eyes, like a manga character’s.  Grass stains on his shorts from diving for the ball a few minutes ago.  The sweat shining on his face and darkening the neck of his T-shirt.  He’s beautiful, and looking at him makes Hajime’s throat feel thick with something weird.  

Tooru’s frown deepens.  “Well?  What are you waiting for?”

“You’re an asshole,” Hajime says before stalking off after the ball.  He hears Tooru shout after his hunched shoulders, but he really wants nothing to do with him at this moment.  He really, _really_ hates Oikawa Tooru.

*

It only gets worse.

Tooru calls Hajime after dinner one night, and when Hajime picks up, he sounds breathless with excitement.  “Hanako kissed me,” he says in a hushed whisper that can barely contain his glee.  “Like, on the mouth!”

The bottom of Hajime’s stomach falls away.  He grips the phone tighter, holds it closer to his face, like if he lets go, he’ll fall away into an abyss.  “R-really?”

“I mean - ” Something rustles; it sounds like Tooru rolling around in his bed.  “We didn’t, like… you know, do anything else.  It happened really fast.  But, I mean, it _happened_ , you know?”

Hajime swallows.  “Y-yeah.”

Tooru sighs dreamily.  “She smells really good.”

Something constricts inside of Hajime.  “That’s… cool…”

“But what about Yuki?  Do you think you’ll kiss anytime soon?”  A smirk enters Tooru’s voice.  “Based on how much she’s always blushing around you, I don’t think she’d object if you decided to just go for it one day.”  

Hajime’s hand is sweaty around the phone.  “I… I don’t know…”

“I could help you practice, if you want.”

Tooru says it so nonchalantly, in such an offhand manner, that it hits Hajime’s ears like a slap in the face.  

“Fuck you,” he says, the curse word sounding strange and foreign on his tongue.

“Iwa-chan!”

“Why should I need your help?”  He’s close to tears, and he doesn’t know why, and all he wants to do is find Tooru and shake him until his head falls off.  

“Because,” Tooru says.  “You do.”

Hajime hangs up on him.

*

It’s the first time they’ve actually fought.  Sure, Tooru’s always been the biggest irritant in Hajime’s life since they met, but nothing had ever escalated past a small scuffle that was mostly Hajime pushing Tooru around because of something stupid that Tooru had done.  This time, the distance between them lasts more than just a few hours, stretching into the week and the weekend.  Hajime refuses to hang out with Tooru, and Tooru retaliates by going on more and more “dates” with Hanako.  Really, though, they can’t actually be called dates, because Hajime knows all they do is walk around the park while Tooru waxes poetic about himself.

But Hajime doesn’t care.  He _doesn’t_ , and he texts his own girlfriend more often.  Mostly to complain about Tooru, but she offers a sympathetic ear, and as it turns out, she’s actually pretty funny, cracking jokes from time to time at Tooru’s expense.  It makes Hajime like her a lot more.  

Of course, it’s impossible to avoid Tooru completely, especially when their moms still work together at the hospital.  A few days after Hajime had hung up on him, Tooru has to come over for dinner while his parents work late.  

“I know you’re going through a rough patch together,” Hajime’s mom says, running a cool hand over the top of his head.  “But you’re still each other’s friend.  I know Tooru thinks the world of you.”

Hajime gives a derisive snort.  “Tooru only thinks the world of himself.”

The smile he sees on his mom’s face makes him uneasy. “I don’t think that’s true.”

When Tooru shows up, Hajime does everything he can to say as little as possible.  He ignores his mom’s announcement that he’s here, and he only offers a sullen nod in acknowledgment when he comes into the living room.  He’s watching a detective drama, and while he isn’t paying much attention, he still watches in outrage as Tooru plops down next to him, grabs the remote, and changes it to something about aliens.

“What the hell!”  He kicks Tooru from his spot lodged in the corner of the sofa, but his sock-clad foot doesn’t do much damage as Tooru deftly dodges the clumsy attack.  “This isn’t your house!”

“You weren’t watching it,” Tooru says airily.  “This is more interesting, anyway.”

Hajime fumes in his seat the whole time they’re sitting there, refusing to pay any attention to whatever garbage Tooru had put on.  He thinks he can waltz in here and treat Hajime’s home like his own, because everyone goes miles out of their way to accommodate his every whim.  Tooru the spoiled brat; even his parents treat him like royalty, because he’s pretty _and_ smart _and_ the ace of his volleyball team.  He even has a girlfriend who’s better in every way than the one girl that actually likes Hajime.  In every aspect of their lives, Tooru always comes out on top, and it makes Hajime’s insides boil.  How, how did he end up with this butthole as a best friend?   He really, _really_ , REALLY -

“Uh, Earth to Iwa-chan.”  Tooru reaches over to poke him.  “Dinner’s ready.”

“I _heard_ ,” Hajime snaps, getting up before Tooru has a chance to say something back.  He hadn’t actually heard his mom’s announcement, but he storms over to the table anyway, unwilling to get there at the same time that Tooru does.  He makes sure that he sits somewhere that isn’t next to Tooru, and all through dinner, he refuses to look across the table at his miserable excuse of a friend.  He knows he’s sulking, and he knows he’s being petty, but for once, just once, he doesn’t want Tooru to win one of his stupid games.

After dinner, they do the dishes in stuffy silence.  Or, at least, Hajime does.  Tooru chats freely, covering every topic from their last volleyball practice to his older brother’s silly girlfriend to his new favorite theory about UFOs.

He follows Hajime up to his room, where he collapses on Hajime’s bed with a heavy sigh.

“Get off of there,” Hajime says.  He tries to shove Tooru off, but Tooru’s a lot heavier than his spindly body looks.

“Has Yuki ever been here?” Tooru asks.

Hajime stops pushing.  “What?”

Tooru looks at him from the corner of his eye.  “Has she ever been over here?  In your room?”

“She lives on the other side of town,” Hajime says, not understanding where Tooru is going with this.  

Tooru looks away.  “Hanako’s been to mine.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t you think we should do a double date?”

“No.”

Tooru pouts.  “Iwa-chan’s no fun.”

Hajime resumes his attempt to push Tooru off of his bed.  “And you suck.”

Tooru sits up, and Hajime nearly loses his balance.  “Why do you always get so weird when I bring up our girlfriends?” he asks.  “You haven’t even done that much with Yuki.  You’re so innocent, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime grits his teeth.  “Why do you _keep_ bringing up my girlfriend?” he asks.

“Because we’re friends,” Tooru says with an easy smile.  “Friends talk about that kind of stuff, if you didn’t know that already.”

“Literally every time I see you,” Hajime says, “you ask me if I’ve done anything cool with Yuki.  Has it ever occurred to you that maybe we just like to talk to each other?  That I value her for her personality?”

Tooru stares.  “That is so, so boring.”

Hajime pushes him over.  “Shut up!”

Tooru immediately sits back up.  “You’re such a virgin!  Are you even interested in her that way?”  He leers.  “Are you interested in girls at _all_?”

“Fuck you.”

“What?”  Tooru’s teeth are dazzling as he laughs.  “Are you guys even _dating_?”

Hajime pushes him again.  “Shut up!”

“Afraid of actually showing a human emotion besides anger?”

“Tooru, I’m serious!”

“Do you even talk about anything besides how annoying I am?”

“ _Tooru_!”

“What?  Are you a homo?”

Hajime’s fist connects with his cheek before either of them realize what’s happening.  Tooru falls back, and his head bounces against the bed like a doll’s as white-hot pain sears across Hajime’s knuckles.  

They blink stupidly for a few seconds, and then Tooru’s launching himself off of Hajime’s bed, tackling Hajime to the floor in a frenzy of slapping, kicking, and hair-pulling.

“Fuck you!”

“Homo!”

Hajime manages to punch Tooru again, and Tooru goes down with a sharp cry of pain.  

“Boys!”  

They turn around; Hajime’s mom is standing in the doorway, her face white with rage.  “Both of you.  Downstairs.   _Now_.”

When they’re sitting on the couch again, Hajime can see the red blotches on Tooru’s face where his fist had hit him.  He has a cut next to his eye where Hajime had broken his skin.  His cheeks are wet with tears, and his tongue is worrying something in his mouth; Hajime may have knocked one of his teeth loose.  

Hajime’s mom paces frantically in front of them, the house phone in a death-grip next to her ear.  “Hi,” she says.  Her voice sounds a little hysterical.  “Our sons just had a fist fight in Hajime’s room.”

It takes Tooru’s mom twenty minutes to get there.  Tooru and Hajime sit in silence the whole time as Hajime’s mom tries to fix them up as much as she can with the first aid kit they keep under Hajime’s bathroom sink.  She tries to lecture them, too, outlining how physical violence isn’t the answer to any of their problems.

They remain silent as Tooru’s mom bursts through the front door, sweeps Tooru into her arms, and begs Hajime’s mom for a reason for the violence.  Hajime doesn’t pay attention.  He doesn’t look at Tooru once until he’s about to go out the front door.  Tooru turns around, and on some unconscious cue, Hajime looks up.

He’ll never forget the burning betrayal he saw in Tooru’s eyes.

*

They don’t speak for a whole week.  Tooru comes to school with a black eye, and the entire second year buzzes with rumors of how it happened.  Hajime doesn’t become a suspect until everyone notices the silence between them, and then their year explodes with speculation.

A few brave souls ask Hajime directly what happened, but he either blows them off or scares them away with a glare.  He knows everyone thinks he’s the one at fault, that Tooru would never be mean enough to deserve a punch to the face, so he caters to them.  He never cared about popularity, anyway.

Yuki doesn’t prod, and Hajime is grateful.  Tooru was right, that they didn’t really do anything that people who were dating were supposed to do, but she was a good friend, and Hajime needed that.  He receives too many dirty looks from Hanako to count, but, truth be told, he doesn’t care.  He can see the tired bags under Tooru’s eyes (at least, the one he _can_ see that isn’t hidden behind the bruises), and all week, there’s a slump to his shoulders that looks almost unnatural on Tooru’s frame.  He misses half of his serves during volleyball practice; by Tuesday, the coach has him sitting out.  He only protests a little bit, and Hajime watches in shock as he calmly goes to the bench.

By Thursday, Hajime regrets punching his best friend in the face, but he’s too proud to admit it yet.  What’s worse is that he actually _misses_ Tooru, but he’ll _definitely_ never admit that.  It’s too quiet on his way home from school, too quiet at lunch, even though Yuki does a pretty good job at keeping Hajime’s mind off of the fight.  Tooru’s absence makes Hajime realize just how deeply ingrained he had been in his life - everything feels off-balance, as if someone had scooped out a piece of Hajime’s insides, leaving a hole that won’t fill back up.  

Friday, Tooru isn’t in school.  His empty seat three rows in front of Hajime practically has a gravitational pull on Hajime’s eyes, and he doesn’t hear half of what his teachers say all day.  Before they part ways to go home, Yuki pats his arm reassuringly.  “I’m sure it isn’t because of you,” she says, and the shy smile that pulls at her lips makes Hajime wish he could feel something more passionate than his lukewarm appreciation for her.

He looks down at his feet, embarrassed.  “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Have a good weekend.”

When Hajime gets home, he simply lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling until his mom calls him down for dinner.

*

Saturday is miserable; Hajime gets some homework done, and he practices tosses against the side of his house for an hour or so before dinner.  He helps his mom with the dishes, and almost immediately after the last bowl is put away, he slouches back up to his room.

Long after his parents go to bed, Hajime’s still up, reading some science fiction manga Tooru had lent him a few months ago.  He finds himself sighing a lot, and his heart feels weird and heavy.  He’s so caught up feeling sorry for himself that he almost doesn’t hear the noises outside.

The tapping on Hajime’s window practically makes him shit his pants, so he’s livid when he opens his curtains and finds Tooru crouching outside, a sheepish expression on his face.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asks.  As nice as it is to see him again, Hajime can already feel the irritation prickling under his skin.

Tooru at least has the decency to look slightly abashed.  “I’m sorry…”

“It’s after midnight,” Hajime hisses.  “If my parents wake up and realize you snuck over here, they’re going to be so angry.”

Tooru rolls his eyes.  “It’s your first time seeing me after we tried to beat each other up, and the only thing you’re concerned about is getting in trouble with your parents for being up late.  I can’t believe you actually punched me.”

Hajime grabs him by the shoulders.  “Then _leave_ , if I’m cramping your style that much,” he says, and he pushes him back toward the window.

“No!”  Tooru twists away from his grip, nearly falling over in the process.  “Please, let me stay!”

Hajime huffs in frustration.  “What’s wrong?”

Tooru stills.  He almost seems to shrink in on himself, and Hajime immediately regrets being so harsh with him.  The skin around his eye is still yellow and tender-looking.  “My parents are getting divorced,” he says.

“What?”

He sniffs, already about to cry as he walks to Hajime’s bed and sits on the edge.  “I walked in on them arguing about when they would tell me.  And, well, they told me, and now it’s happening, and they don’t know that I snuck out my window to come here - ” His brittle voice breaks with a panicked sob.  “They’re getting _divorced_ , Iwa-chan!”

He dissolves into a fit of sniffling and whining, and Hajime sits on the bed next to him.  “That… that’s rough.”

Tooru crumples, and the force of it causes them to fall back onto the blankets.  His arms wind around Hajime’s middle, and he tucks his head in the crook of Hajime’s neck and shoulder.  His breath is hot against Hajime’s skin, the tears flooding out of his eyes making everything kind of sticky and gross.  Hajime returns the hug, pats his back as he snuggles closer.  His hair scratches Hajime’s chin; he smells like sweat, like outside, a hint of something floral that might be the laundry detergent his mom uses.  He’s warm, really warm, and Hajime hopes he can’t feel the anxious pounding of his heart through his chest.

“It’s okay…”  Hajime hasn’t seen Tooru cry this much since they were eleven, and Tooru had broken his arm falling out of a tree in the park a few blocks from their houses.  “You’re okay.”

A sniff, a gulp.  Tooru shudders, and he pulls away slightly to study Hajime’s face.  

“What?”

“I don’t want to have to move away.”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

Hajime pokes him in the side, hard.  “Stop worrying about it so much.”

“How are you so calm about it?”

He runs a gentle finger along the tender skin under his eye.  “Because you aren’t.  One of us has to be.”

Suddenly, uncharacteristically, Tooru shyly tucks his head back into Hajime’s shoulder.

Eventually, he calms down, and Hajime reluctantly lets him spend the night.  He finds some pajamas for him to wear, and does his best not to watch his friend as he changes at the foot of the bed.  As annoying as Tooru can be, Hajime still can’t help the tight feeling in his gut when he realizes how nice he actually looks.  He averts his eyes from the supple grace of Tooru’s back, the fluidity of his athletic build.  

He _really_ tries not to blush as Tooru quietly climbs under the covers next to him.  Hajime turns off the lamp by his bed, and they settle in together, Tooru’s limbs tangling themselves with Hajime’s.

Hajime thinks Tooru falls asleep immediately, but a few minutes later, he feels him wiggle.

“Stop squirming,” he chides, nudging him with a knee.  “I can’t sleep.”

“Iwa-chan?”

“What.”

“I broke up with Hanako.”

“What?”

“I never liked her.”

The words set Hajime’s heart skittering like marbles.  “S-so?”

“I like you.”

His heart stops.  He blinks.  His thoughts scatter.  What did he say?

“Iwa-chan?”

Hajime closes his eyes.  “Go to sleep, Trashkawa.”

An amused puff of air hits his clavicle like an electric shock.  “Always so sweet, Iwa-chan.”

Then Tooru’s snuggling closer, a cold hand sliding under Hajime’s shirt, his hair tickling Hajime’s lip and chin.  Again, Hajime gets a whiff of his warm scent, and it settles in his chest like a fine dust, or a soft blanket.  Tooru’s knee finds its way between Hajime’s legs, and although it’s kind of uncomfortable, Hajime only sighs in resignation.  It isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed.  

Neither of them fall asleep immediately, but neither of them say anything, either.  Hajime can feel the soft rise and fall of Tooru’s breathing, the rapid beat of his pulse where their skin touches.  He can even feel, every now and then, the slight tickle of Tooru’s eyelashes brushing against his skin.  

Slowly, with each passing minute, Hajime can also feel the last few weeks’ worth of resentment and anger wearing away, slowly dissolving with each breath that mingles between them.  Neither Hajime nor Tooru need to say anything to know that, somehow, they’ve both forgiven each other.

**  
**

_now_

Kuroo blinks slowly as his eyes rove the computer screen in front of him.  The sound of the scroll wheel on his mouse spinning constantly fills the small office space, worming its way into Hajime’s ear like the buzzing of a fly.  

“What are you _doing_?” he gripes, swiveling around in his seat to glare at his friend.  “Stop it.”

“Dude,” Kuroo says.  “Your boyfriend hangs out with so many hot girls.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend.”  Hajime knows the protest falls on deaf ears, though, so he gives in to curiosity and peers over Kuroo’s shoulder.  There’s a picture of Oikawa at a party, his eyes glowing yellow along with seven other pairs belonging to a group of girls in short skirts, cutoff shorts, and tight tops.  A picture of Oikawa in a pool, three girls in bikinis jostling to get the coveted spot in his lap.  Oikawa at a bar, a girl and two handsome guys hanging off of his shoulders.  Oikawa at a different bar, taking a selfie with girl who might actually be a famous model Hajime’s seen on magazines at the grocery store.

“Are you sure he’s gay?” Kuroo asks, looking at Hajime over his shoulder incredulously.

Hajime takes a sip of his stale coffee.  “He isn’t.”

“Bi?”

He shrugs, puts his coffee down on his desk.  “Maybe.”

Kuroo smirks.  “Would you happen to know from personal experience?”

“Stop stalking his Facebook and read through the medical reports I sent you,” Hajime says.  “For Christ’s sake.”

“Look.” Kuroo’s voice sounds weird, and when Hajime turns around, his stomach constricts.

It’s a throwback post to several years ago.  Oikawa and Hajime are sitting on a stone wall, a sandy beach and water shining behind them.  Oikawa’s arm is around Hajime’s shoulder, and his other hand is making a peace sign next to his face.  Hajime’s actually smiling.  

_#TBT to simpler times!!  Proof that I’ve always been as cute as I am now <333_

“You guys are _adorable_ ,” Kuroo says.  

Hajime swallows, unable to speak.  He remembers that trip.  It’d been the year before middle school started, and Oikawa’s parents had taken them to a nearby coastal town for a few days.  Oikawa had gotten a really bad sunburn; Hajime still has some of the shells he’d collected there.

“You need to get back to work,” he says.  

Kuroo turns around again.  “He posted a _picture_ of you - ”  He checks the date.  “Three months ago!  That means something!”

Hajime goes back to his computer.  “You see the caption.  The point is how cute he looks.  It doesn’t even mention me.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Kuroo says, “ _au contraire_.  Sugawara Koushi commented, ‘Cute! Who’s the other person, though?’ And Oikawa replied, ‘My old best friend,’ with one of those squiggly things that makes it read cutely.  And then,” he says, turning to Hajime in excitement.  “And _then_ , he added, ‘Isn’t he cute too?’”

Hajime stares at him.  “Stop dicking around.”

“I know you secretly care,” Kuroo says.  “You don’t have to say it out loud.”

“Fuck off.”

*

When Hajime gets home, he goes straight to his room, where he flops back onto his bed, exhausted.  After Kuroo had gone through all of Oikawa’s tagged photos, he’d tried to give Hajime a pep talk, which had resulted in Hajime leaving their cramped office to make copies of a report that wasn’t needed until much later.  

“But - hear me out, dude!”  Kuroo had grabbed onto Hajime’s arm, holding him back.  “Just listen to me.”

“You’re supposed to be _working_.”

“They’re not paying us for this,” Kuroo scoffed.

“Seriously,” Hajime said.  He was suddenly very, very tired.  “Stop butting into this.”

“Okay, okay.”  Kuroo held out two placating hands.  “Just hear me out.”

Hajime stood still in the doorway.

“ _Something_ happened between you guys when you were younger, and now, after a long ass time of feeling sorry about whatever it was, you’re seeing him again.  He hasn’t run away screaming into the night, and you seem a lot… not happier, but there’s definitely been a change in you.  And don’t say it doesn’t mean anything!” he added as Hajime started to speak up.  “I _saw_ you and Oikawa at my apartment, and he is _into_ you.  You need to do something, man!  Just say the word, and I’m sure he’ll climb you like a tree right then and there.”

“Kuroo,” Hajime said, his voice even, measured, controlled.  “I appreciate your concern, but - and you’ll know how much this kills me to admit it - but, honestly, it’s… complicated.”

Instead of looking concerned, though, Kuroo had just smiled.  “Dude, relationships _are_ complicated.  You think it’s always been this easy between me and Kenma?”

“You and Kenma were practically married from the womb,” Hajime retorted.

Kuroo wagged a finger.  “Not true.  This shit takes work, and even though I’m just an outsider looking in, from what I’ve seen, whatever issue it is that you think you have... “  He shrugged.  “It’s not as big a deal as you think.”

The words followed Hajime all the way home, and now Hajime’s studying his ceiling, images of Kuroo’s easy smile alternating with the way Oikawa had looked in front of his building in his head.  It’s been a few days, verging on a week, and Oikawa still hasn’t said anything.  Hajime’s too terrified to initiate any contact, worried that Oikawa will be too busy for him, his social calendar filled with more important dates than his shitty childhood friend.

Hajime heaves a heavy sigh.  He remembers how strong the urge had been to pull Oikawa too him, to kiss him senseless and maybe do even more if he’d been able to get up to his apartment.  Goosebumps erupt across his arms, the back of his neck, as he remembers the thrill he’d felt when Oikawa had pressed against him on Kuroo’s sofa, the electricity of Oikawa’s warm breath on the sensitive shell of his ear.  

Then he’s blushing, covering his eyes with both hands as he lets out a low, strangled groan.  He can’t _believe_ how much he fucked up.  

“Fuck you, _Tetsurou_ ,” he spits out, but the venom vanishes as his words quickly devolve into another incoherent, frustrated groan.  He wonders what might’ve happened if he’d plucked up the courage and kissed Oikawa, but then he immediately puts a stop to it as the train of thought leads to flushed, warm skin and the creak of a boxspring.   _I’m an asshole, he thinks, an asshole who can’t do anything.  What a catch._

He gets up, goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face.  As his reflection blinks back at him, water dangling from his eyelashes and chin, he tries to see himself through other people’s eyes.  He tries to see what another person might find appealing - the strength of his jaw, his tan skin, the way his eyebrows make him look like he’s eternally pissed off.  Nothing like the easy grace of Oikawa’s pretty features, the fine slope of his nose, the way the corners of his lips quirk up, as if he’s constantly flirting with whoever looks at him.  Hajime turns away from his reflection with a scoff.  As if he could ever compete.

He hates this weird melancholy feeling that clings to his heart like a slimy film.  He hates that he misses Oikawa, and he _especially_ hates that Kuroo was probably right.

As Hajime sits down at his desk to do some mindless Internet browsing, he doesn’t realize where his fingers take him until Oikawa’s profile picture is grinning at him amid his now-trademark group of beautiful people.  Hajime blinks at the screen, briefly annoyed by the slight squeeze he feels his heart give.

“Fuck it,” he says eventually, and he clicks on the folder marked “Photos” without a second thought.

**  
**

_The end_

A new enemy shows up at the beginning of their last year of middle school in the form of a kid named Kageyama Tobio.  Hajime doesn’t think much of him, with his scrawny legs and a nearly bowl-shaped haircut that made him look a bit dweeby, but Tooru becomes obsessed as they realize that the First Year is actually a genius.  He’s a setter, too, and Hajime watches in mild horror as his best friend descends into a frenzy of paranoia.  More than a few times a week he finds him practicing late in the gym, and he has to drag him home, often kicking and screaming.  And every time, Hajime cuffs him across the back of the head when they reach his house, reminding him that he’s only human.

“Tobio-chan will surpass me if I don’t practice harder than him!” Tooru protests, and Hajime can’t tell if the tears in his eyes are from frustration or the strength of Hajime’s hand against his head.  

“He’ll also surpass you if you end up dead on the floor of the gym!” Hajime snaps.  

Tooru looks away, pouting.  “Iwa-chan is so mean.”

Hajime pushes at his shoulder, but the ferocity is all gone.  “Shut up, Trashkawa.”

“Stop calling me that!”

Hajime smiles; he’s enjoying himself now.  “ _Ass-kawa_.”

Tooru pushes him away and makes to go into his house.  “You don’t deserve to have me as a friend.”

Hajime looks at him, at the halo of light from the window outlining the feather-soft curls of his hair.  His nose is snootily stuck up, and he’s watching Hajime imperiously out of the corner of his eye.  Even though he’s sweaty and exhausted from practice, he’s still radiant, and the sight of him standing above Hajime makes his heart beat just a little faster in the cage of his chest.  

He blinks, dispelling all of that nonsense from his head.  “Go to bed, Tooru,” he says.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The smile that pulls at the playful corners of Tooru’s mouth makes Hajime forget how to breathe for a second.  “See you tomorrow, Iwa-chan.”   _Thank you for taking care of me._

He doesn’t say it, but as Hajime turns away to walk to his own house, he can hear it in his ears in Tooru’s soft, lilting voice, and it stays with him even when he’s in his bed, his head full of Tooru’s tender smile as he drifts off to sleep.

*

On weekends, Tooru sneaks in through Hajime’s window to spend the night.  His parents are waiting for Tooru to finish middle school before finalizing the divorce, but that doesn’t stop the arguments they think he can’t hear, or the fact that his dad has been living in his older brother’s old room since the divorce was announced.  So, Tooru spends as much time as he can at Hajime’s house, hogging his bed, the TV, and his mother’s sympathy.  Hajime complains, but his protests fall on deaf ears; and anyway, he can’t say he really minds having Tooru around all the time.  He’d gotten used to his moldy presence a long time ago.

What he isn’t used to, though, is the weird feeling he gets every time Tooru gets near him, his warm body overwhelming Hajime in ways he can’t explain.  Tooru has never really subscribed to the idea of personal space, using Hajime as a pillow when he’s tired and clinging to Hajime whenever he whines about his unfair behavior, so Hajime should be used to it.  And he has been, but now, suddenly, every time Tooru leans into his space without warning, every time Tooru grabs him, pulls at him, or falls on top of him, Hajime’s heart leaps into his throat, and a hot sweat breaks out along his hairline and under his arms.  Tooru doesn’t seem to notice, though; or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.  Hajime desperately hopes he can’t feel his jittery nerves.

When Tooru shows up at Hajime’s window, eyes wide and glowing with the thrill of going behind their parents’ backs, Hajime’s throat starts to feel tight with emotion.  And when Tooru looks down at Hajime after crawling inside, his eyes still aglow, his lips slightly parted, a blush threatening to flood his face, the tightness in Hajime’s throat constricts, and he has to quickly say something disparaging to ease the tension.

When Tooru slithers under his covers on those nights, the warmth of his nearness makes Hajime feel hot all over.  Tooru clings to him like a vine, his hands tangling in the fabric of Hajime’s pajama shirt, the flyaways of his hair tickling Hajime’s face.  He snuggles in as close as he can, making it nearly impossible for Hajime to breathe without feeling Tooru’s heart beating only a few centimeters from his own.  It takes Hajime forever to fall asleep.

And when Hajime wakes up, he’s pinned under Tooru’s arm at his waist, and he feels Tooru’s hot, stale breath moving over the top of his scalp.  He’d rolled over sometime during the night, and now Tooru’s chest is pressed against his back, his hand splayed across the bare expanse of Hajime’s belly; his shirt had ridden up his torso as he had rolled over, probably.

Hajime yawns, and Tooru gives a sleepy sigh and pulls Hajime closer, nuzzling his nose into the nape of his neck.  It makes Hajime’s gut churn uncontrollably, and his body tenses with something between anxiousness and excitement.  

Gently, tenderly, he places his hand over Tooru’s and lifts it away from his stomach.  Tooru rolls onto his back with another sigh, and when Hajime risks a glance over his shoulder, he’s watching him with eyes half-open, cheeks flushed with sleep as a small smile quietly tugs at the corners of his mouth.  The sight of him makes the churning in Hajime’s gut even worse, and he quickly gets up to pee before anything embarrassing has a chance to get past his lips.

Sometimes, Tooru wakes up first, and he’s already out of the bed by the time Hajime opens his eyes, lying on the floor with a science fiction manga held over his face.  Neither of them say anything, and Hajime pretends that the coolness of the sheets around him doesn’t bother him as he gets up, gently kicking Tooru’s side as he steps over him to go to the bathroom.

He feels like he’s come down with some weird illness, some bug that has infected his nervous system and turned him into a sweaty, anxious mess.  What’s even weirder is that sometimes, it seems as if Tooru has the same bug.  Hajime will notice a rosy flush creeping into the corners of Tooru’s cheeks, or a moment of eye contact awkwardly broken off with a self-conscious scratching at the back of his neck.  Sometimes, when Tooru grabs his hand to drag him off somewhere, his palms are unusually sweaty; as long as Hajime has known Tooru, he’s always been the epitome of calm, cool, and collected.  

The idea of Tooru feeling the same way has Hajime tossing and turning on the nights Tooru isn’t over, his mind racing with _maybes_ and _what ifs_ that turn him into a nervous wreck.  He thinks about Tooru a lot, about the delicate curves of his face, the lean lines of his body, the easy grace of his movements that make Hajime feel like a blundering, awkward idiot in comparison.  He thinks about how it feels to receive Tooru’s tosses, the satisfaction and feeling of _rightness_ that surges through his body when the ball hits the gym floor and his palm stings with the beauty of the play, the way Tooru beams at him like _Hajime_ is the reason he keeps playing.  Everyone on the team says the two of them are linked mentally and physically, and Hajime thinks it’s true.  

He thinks about other things, too, like how Tooru has nice legs, and nice hands, and how it feels when they walk side-by-side between home and school, their bodies periodically bumping into each other as if the two of them were part of their own gravitational field.  He thinks about the soft way Tooru looks at him sometimes, large, kind eyes over a gentle, tender mouth that only calls his name with affection.   _Iwa-chan… Iwa-chan!_

Hajime rolls over, buries his hot face into his pillow.  He can’t _believe_ this.

*

Then, one night, when Tooru is once again tangled up with Hajime in his bed, he asks, “When you were dating Yuki last year… did you guys ever… kiss?”

Hajime’s heart stops cold.  “What?”

Tooru shifts, his body tense.  “I mean, when you were going out with Yuki, did you ever kiss her?”

Hajime scoots back a bit so he can properly glare at Tooru.  “Why the hell are you asking?”

“Just _answer_ ,” Tooru whines.  Hajime feels his frustrated foot knock into his shin.  “Please?”

“Fine,” Hajime snaps, irritated with Tooru for bringing up this embarrassing fact about his life.  Of all times to gloat about how much better he is at everything, he picks now.  “We never kissed.  You were the better boyfriend.  Are you happy?”

“Yeah.”  And then Tooru’s leaning in, his head tilting, his body shaking as he plants a kiss on the corner of Hajime’s mouth.  Hajime freezes, and Tooru doesn’t move.  Hajime thinks Tooru is holding his breath; he’s stiff, and the hand gripping Hajime’s arm feels like it could leave a bruise.  Distantly, Hajime notes the sensation of Tooru’s eyelashes against his cheek.

Tooru pulls away, and Hajime feels the rush of air as he exhales noisily.  Without thinking, Hajime slides a hand up to cup his cheek, and their lips meet again, a soft, hesitant press that’s warm and shivering and has Hajime’s heart all the way up in his throat.  Tooru sucks in a breath through his nose before carefully moving closer, hesitant, as if he’s afraid of doing something wrong.  His hand slides up Hajime’s arm to rest on his jaw, his fingers stopping just behind his ear, his thumb slowly caressing the swell of Hajime’s cheek.

Hajime feels boneless when they pull apart.  His mind full of static; thoughts are a foreign concept.  In the dim street light coming in through the window, Hajime can see Tooru shyly peeking up at him, his face half-buried in the soft down of the pillow.  Hajime wants to bury his own face into his pillow, wants to find some way to extinguish the flames he can feel burning in his cheeks.

“How was that?”  Tooru’s voice is barely a whisper, but he may as well have shouted it with the way Hajime’s ears are ringing.  

Hajime’s hand is steadier than he’d imagined it would be as he reaches out to cup Tooru’s cheek again and hold his gaze.  His heart leaps in his chest as he leans forward to place his lips against Tooru’s, press, pull away just a little, and kiss him again.  Tooru tilts his head slightly to reach Hajime’s lips more easily, and his hand comes up to rest on top of Hajime’s.

Feeling Tooru reciprocate the action kindles a warm glow inside Hajime; he presses forward until he’s holding himself over Tooru, his weight supported by his forearms on each side of Tooru’s shoulders.  Tooru’s hands come up to wrap around Hajime’s neck and pull him closer as he breathes a quiet sigh through his nose, the warm air tickling Hajime’s face.  He kisses Tooru again, though, and again; his soft mouth is all Hajime had hoped it would be, but he hadn’t known just how nice and soft he would feel.  Everything Hajime had tried to imagine before had been nothing compared to the sweet reality, and now that Hajime has it, he wants more - to kiss Tooru senseless; to feel Tooru’s body press against him, every part of him melting against Hajime’s skin; to be as close to Tooru as physically possible, to the point that he can’t tell where he ends and where Tooru begins.

Hajime feels Tooru’s tongue flick against his bottom lip just enough to wet it, and he pulls back, surprised.

Tooru’s eyes go wide.  “Sorry - I didn’t - ”

“It’s okay.”  Hajime falls back onto his side of the bed, his heart racing, his lips singing with sensation.  

“Are you…”

“Yeah.”

Tooru sighs and wiggles closer.  “You sure?”

Hajime nods.  It’s really hard to remember to breathe.  “Yeah.”

Tooru’s hand finds its way into Hajime’s hair, his fingers gentle, tender.  “Okay.”

His mouth is feather-soft against Hajime’s as he moves in for a brief kiss, and then another, and another.  When he moves away, his eyes are sparkling in the dim light.  “Goodnight, Iwa-chan.”

A hand reaches out to smooth back an errant curl of his hair.  “Goodnight.”

*

At school, Tooru acts as if nothing had happened.  He still bothers Hajime every chance he gets, and he still obsesses over the looming presence of Kageyama’s blooming ability.  Hajime still finds him practicing in the gym long after everyone else has gone home; he’s still as loud, obnoxious, and self-centered as ever, and Hajime still catches himself grinding his teeth in frustration several times a day.

There are, however, small moments that make it all worth it: a hand brushing against Hajime’s side as Tooru passes by his desk; a finger hooking one of his for the briefest of seconds as they walk side-by-side to and from school; an instance of eye contact that makes Tooru blush and look away, like Hajime had caught him staring; a smile, tentative and shy, offered across the court at practice before he goes into another jump serve.  It makes Hajime’s heart skip a beat, and he nearly hits Kunimi in the back of the head in his distraction.

When Tooru follows him home, they spend the afternoon splayed out on Hajime’s bed, their legs tangled together as they talk about anything other than the homework they aren’t doing.  Other things are off-topic, like the impending divorce, or the fact that neither of them know what to call what’s happening between them.  Hajime does everything he can to keep words like _boyfriend_ and _love_ out of his head; he knows that that won’t do any good.  But he hopes, however quietly, that maybe, _maybe_ , one of the words will slip out of Tooru’s mouth and burrow its way into Hajime’s heart.  

It doesn’t happen, but the hope remains, tucked into a corner in Hajime’s chest, just waiting to come alive.

*

As they enter the latter half of the school year, they get busier and busier studying for entrance exams.  Hajime’s mom enrolls him in a cram school, and Tooru’s mom quickly follows suit; soon enough, both of them are trapped in a freezing classroom for two hours every day after school.  For Hajime, it brings back memories of summer school, of flies buzzing in windows, of Tooru waiting outside on his bicycle, a stained popsicle stick poking out of his mouth in an imitation of Spike Spiegel.  Now, several years later, Tooru is sitting next to him, flicking notes onto Hajime’s desk as Hajime tries to focus on the teacher’s instruction.

“Cut it out,” Hajime hisses.  They’ve already been caught passing notes twice today; if they get caught again, they’ll be asked to leave, and Hajime will have to sit through another lecture on discipline and academic achievement from his mother.

Tooru doesn’t say anything.  Instead, he scribbles something down in his notebook, rips it out, and surreptitiously places it on the edge of Hajime’s desk.  

_is oikawa tooru the cutest boy you know?_

_☐  yes_

_☐  of course!_

_☐  indeed - i really like him_

When Hajime glares at him, there’s a faint flush lighting up Tooru’s face that’s unsettling, and Hajime quickly looks back at the note, his heart stuttering uncomfortably in his chest.  Quickly, he writes something underneath the last option and hands it back.

Tooru’s anticipatory smile instantly turns into a look of outrage. “I’m not an asshole!”

*

“You _are_ an asshole,” Hajime gripes outside the school fifteen minutes later, after they’ve been kicked out for disturbing class.  “My mom’s gonna kill me.”

“No, she won’t,” Tooru says, and when Hajime looks over at him, he’s wearing an easy smile.  “Not if I explain.”

Hajime scoffs.  “Yeah, right.”

Tooru’s explanation doesn’t amount to much, in the end, and Hajime’s mother sends them both upstairs to his room to spend the rest of the time they’d be in cram school going through their workbooks.  Tooru hi-jacks Hajime’s desk, so Hajime ends up stomach-down on his bed, his workbook open in front of him.  He actually works, too, even as Tooru goofs off on his phone, probably texting one of the many girls that follow him around school every day.

Eventually, Tooru sighs and leans back in Hajime’s chair, his head flopping backwards to look at Hajime upside-down.  “How often do you masturbate?” he asks.

The question goes through Hajime’s body like a jolt of electricity.  “ _What_?”

Tooru blinks, completely unbothered.  “I’m just asking.  Don’t be so weird about it.”

Hajime scrambles to sit up; his face is burning, and his heart is pounding.  “I’m not being weird!”

Tooru widens his eyes.  “Is it a lot?”

“Why are you asking?”

He shrugs.  “I’m just curious.”

“Well…”  Hajime fiddles with his pencil.  “How much do _you_ … do it?”

Tooru’s eyes wander as he thinks.  “Two… three times?”

“A day?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck.”

Tooru laughs, the sound like the chime of a bell.  “How much do _you_ do it?”

“Like…”  Hajime can’t bring himself to look at Tooru, to gauge his reaction.  “Maybe a few times a week.  Sometimes if I’m stressed I’ll do it before I go to sleep, but not a lot.”

He hears a sigh.  “Even in masturbating, Iwa-chan doesn’t know how to have fun.”  He tuts as Hajime’s face boils.  

“It’s different for everyone!”

One side of Tooru’s mouth curls upward, a glint of mischief sparkling in his eye.  

That’s how Hajime ends up side-by-side with Tooru on his bed, each of them with a hand around himself, the sounds of their rough breathing filling the otherwise silent room.  Hajime’s afraid to look over, to catch sight of something he isn’t supposed to see.  He can feel Tooru’s eyes on him, though, peeking over from time to time, out of curiosity or something else, Hajime can’t tell.  It makes the flush in Hajime’s cheeks deepen, and he can’t help the warmth Tooru’s gaze sends shooting through him like an electric current.  

His eyes are closed when he feels something touch the back of his hand, making him still.  When he opens his eyes, Tooru’s looking at him, a silent request burning in his eyes.  Hajime’s too afraid to say anything, so he simply lets go of himself, allows Tooru to touch him.

He’s cautious at first, the feather-light touch making a flurry of butterflies erupt just under Hajime’s lungs.  It’s difficult to breathe, difficult to _think_ as Tooru’s grip tightens just a little, slowly, carefully beginning to move, and Hajime sits frozen to the spot even as his heart thrashes around in his chest, a hot sweat breaking out all over his body.  He feels like every nerve ending has come alive, everything inside him shivering, waiting, screaming for Tooru to do more, to release the tension in his body that makes him feel like a rubber band stretched to its limit.

“Stop watching,” Tooru mumbles, and when Hajime looks at him in incredulity, his face is a really appealing shade of pink.  

“Wh-what do you want me to do?”  Hajime’s surprised he can even speak with Tooru’s hand still wrapped loosely around him.

Tooru can’t meet his eyes.  “Touch me, too.  We’ll do it together.”

Wordlessly, Hajime reaches over, his heart in this throat.  Tooru feels just like him, only a little different, a little smoother, and very warm.  It’s weird, but once they both start moving their hands, a pleasant, supple warmth starts moving into his limbs, winds its way around his chest, grips his heart, sparkles behind his closed eyes.  He gasps when Tooru squeezes just slightly, and his hips move involuntarily, an anticipatory shudder running along his veins.

He starts to move his hand a little faster, and Tooru lets out a faint grunt.  Out of the corner of his eye, Hajime sees his head fall back, his mouth open as he breathes a shaky sigh.  Hajime lets himself look a little more directly, and the sight of Tooru - cheeks flushed, face glowing with a sheen of sweat, his half-grown Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly around a noise - sends a sharp jolt through Hajime’s heart.  Before he knows what’s happening, the tingling in his body tightens, expands, and a rough moan rips its way out of his throat as he throws his head back and releases all over Tooru’s hand.  It doesn’t take long for Tooru to follow suit, and when they’re done, spent, stomachs heaving as their lungs try to catch up to their hearts, Tooru lolls his head to the side and catches Hajime’s eye.  Up close, his pupils are blown wide, he’s breathing through his mouth, and the warm, moist air fans across Hajime’s face in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.  

He blinks, and then he’s getting up and grabbing the box of tissues from Hajime’s desk.  He takes a bunch before tossing it over to Hajime, the box landing perfectly in his hands even as Tooru avoids his eyes.  Hajime takes a few tissues, too afraid to break the heavy silence hanging between them.  He feels embarrassed and awkward, but he also feels warm, and almost, kind of, happy.

But he’s afraid to let that thought go too far as Tooru pulls his pants back up and shuffles to his phone, checking his messages with a thoughtful twist of the mouth.  Hajime pulls his pants back on, too, but he stays on his bed, an unfamiliar feeling of loss creeping its way into his chest, its cold fingers brushing the edges of his heart.

**  
**

_now_

Oikawa invites Hajime to see a new movie with him, one with alien abductions and mutant FBI agents and a plot that seems as if its major events had been plucked from a hat at random.  Hajime has fun, though, despite the terrible plot and worse acting.  Part of it is the frequency with which Oikawa leans over to whisper something in Hajime’s ear, his hand unconsciously holding onto Hajime’s arm, as if Hajime were going to get up and leave while he’s still mid-sentence.  And part of it is the movie itself, although if Hajime’s being honest, it’s mostly because Oikawa had spilled his popcorn halfway through the first preview, and his look of utter consternation had made Hajime unable to stop laughing until the opening credits had begun.

“You _always_ think my suffering is funny,” Oikawa moans as they leave.  He has his arm looped through Hajime’s, their bodies bumping against each other nicely, easily.  

“Everyone thinks you’re so perfect, it’s nice to constantly see proof that they’re all horribly wrong,” Hajime says.

It isn’t snowing tonight, and the stars peek through a smattering of clouds, smiling down on the pair as they walk to the subway station.  Oikawa’s a vision in the yellow street light, his cheeks and nose rosy from the cold, the aqua scarf around his neck perfectly accentuating the chestnut highlights of his hair.  He’s radiant, and all thoughts of losing his popcorn are forgotten as he recounts a funny story about his nephew involving a duck and some hand lotion that leaves Hajime desperate for air.

They get a few looks from older people as they make their way into the station, but Hajime finds it hard to care with Oikawa pressed to his side like this, his hands clinging to the sleeve of Hajime’s coat as an attentive girlfriend might.  

On the train, though, Oikawa slumps into his seat, suddenly tired.  He lets his head loll towards Hajime on the back of his seat, his eyes sleepy, but wary.  “What’s with calling me Oikawa all the time?” he asks; his voice is quiet so only Hajime can hear, but it’s also as if he’s worried about what the answer might be, like if he’s quiet enough, Hajime won’t hear and the inevitably harsh answer will never reach his ears.  “What happened to me being Tooru to you?”

Hajime frowns.  The question sobers him up from the heady laughter of a few minutes ago, making him more aware of the cold air around them, the shaky movements of the train, the sting of the fluorescent lights over their heads.  “You know why,” he says, unable to offer any other explanation.

Even though Hajime speaks quietly, too, Oikawa seems to shrink in on himself, as if Hajime had yelled.  It’s so unnatural, seeing him suddenly so insecure, so unsure.  With a sheepish glance in his direction, he asks, “Do you hate me?”

All of the breath leaves Hajime’s body in one large sigh.  He hadn’t been expecting this question, especially after what Kuroo would label as what should have been a very successful date.  “I don’t know,” he says, and he means it.  “I don’t think so.”

“I would, if I were you.”

Hajime isn’t sure he heard right, but when he looks over for clarification, Oikawa has his hands in his lap, his eyes downcast, afraid to see what might lie in Hajime’s expression.

Hajime sighs again, looks ahead as he tries to get his thoughts straight.  Memories from before pop up in his head unwarranted; glances across the classroom, a popsicle stick poking out of a grape-stained mouth, legs tangled on his bed, a dirty street gutter filled with wilting cherry blossoms.  He half-remembers feelings of irritation, admiration, frustration, delight, the stinging pain of loss, of realization.  It’s been so long since he thought of any of this - it’s been so long since he’s _wanted_ to.  He’s spent so much time avoiding it, avoiding the questions still swimming in Oikawa’s eyes as Hajime glances at him, fearful of the pain and confusion he might see there, as well.  

Oikawa takes Hajime’s hand in his and squeezes with reassurance.  “You don’t have to know,” he says, and when Hajime meets his eyes, they’re warm and soft with understanding.  

Hajime opens his mouth, closes it again, swallows.  “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay.  I sprung the question on you without warning.”

Another squeeze, and then Oikawa’s letting go, reaching up to adjust the artful draping of his scarf.  “How many more stops?”

Hajime’s head feels scrambled as he tries to find a map of the different lines plastered on one of the walls.  He leaves the matter alone when Oikawa figures it out with a triumphant _Ah!_  His hand still thrums with energy where Oikawa had held it, so he closes it into a loose fist, hoping that will keep the energy contained, that he’ll be able to hold on to it just a little bit longer.

**  
**

_when it all fell apart_

Middle school ends with surprising speed - it feels as if one week Hajime is taking the last bout of entrance exams, and the next, he’s fumbling with his tie, uncomfortable in the tight suit his mother had purchased for the occasion.  His stomach is a bundle of nerves; he hasn’t talked to Tooru since the night before, and he had a bad dream where he dropped his diploma and, when he straightened up after picking it up, his pants had disappeared.   

Tooru laughs about it when they meet up in front of his house on the way to the school.  “That’s such a nerdy dream,” he teases.

“You try laughing about it when it’s _you_ in your underwear in front of the whole student body and their parents,” Hajime grumbles.  “See how funny it is then.”

Tooru punches his arm lightly.  “Ease up, Iwa-chan,” he says.  “A whole new world is opening up before you in the form of high school.”

Hajime’s stomach curdles at the words.  Why he feels this queasy and nervous, he can’t tell; since the year before, he’s been eager to move on to the next stage of his life, but now it’s like his gut knows something he doesn’t.  It only makes him more nervous, as if everything from the dream to his current urge to vomit is a bad omen, and he should have just stayed in bed instead of getting up and walking into this mess.

At the graduation ceremony, Tooru sits two rows behind Hajime.  The ceremony proceeds smoothly, and Hajime doesn’t drop his diploma when it’s his turn to receive it from the principal.  He even hears his parents’ shouts of encouragement from the stands, and he feels his face heat up a little in adolescent embarrassment.  Disaster doesn’t strike, though, and for a moment, Hajime thinks he’ll get out of it alive.

Then, it’s Tooru’s turn.  “Oikawa Tooru,” the MC-ing teacher announces, “going to Fukurodani High School in Tokyo.”

The bottom of Hajime’s stomach drops out when he hears those words.  He can’t breathe.  Everything constricts, his mouth dries, his heart pounds anxiously.  Maybe he heard wrong.  Maybe the teacher made a mistake; she was known to be kind of ditzy, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to believe.  Hajime watches Tooru politely accept his diploma, hears the girls in their class (and even a few moms) cheering for his success, sees the smooth, graceful motion of his body as he moves back to his seat.  But everything is blurred, blotchy, his stomach is roiling, and he really feels like he might throw up on the shoes of the girl sitting next to him.  He takes a deep breath, clutches his stomach.   _Just a little longer_ , he thinks.   _It’ll be okay_.

Except, it isn’t.

He can’t find Tooru outside after the ceremony; his parents are with him, oblivious to the nervous stink that probably clings to him as he wipes his sweaty brow.  The air is full of cherry blossoms, and classmates and families are gathered in groups, sharing a few last words before they part ways, some for the summer, some forever.  Hajime’s father says something conversational, but the words don’t reach Hajime’s ears as he scans the crowd for the twentieth time, desperate for a glimpse of Tooru’s feathery hair, his artificial smile, his healthy glow.

“Hajime?  Are you okay?”  His mother holds a hand up to his brow to get a feel for his temperature.  “Are you feeling sick?”

“I think - ”  Hajime swallows around the lump forming in his throat.  “I’m just tired.  I want to go home.”

He doesn’t find him until he goes by his house later that evening and finds him sitting outside, a volleyball in his lap.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were moving to Tokyo?” he practically shouts.  He kicks the ball out of Tooru’s lap when he reaches him.  “What’s your _problem_?”

“What’s _your_ problem?” Tooru snaps, snatching the ball with his excellent reflexes and holding it protectively in his lap.

Hajime can feel tears building up behind his eyes.  He _won’t_ cry.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

Tooru studies his hands gently gripping the ball.  “I knew you would be mad at me,” he mumbles.  “My dad’s job is taking him back to Tokyo, and I just wanted to go back there.  Fukurodani has a really great volleyball program, too, and I _have_ to get better so I can beat Tobio-chan and Ushiwaka.”

Hajime can barely speak.  “Is - is it because - because we - because I - ”

Tooru still won’t meet his eye.  He scratches a spot of dirt off of the ball’s roughened, well-worn surface.  “My older brother is moving back here with my nephew, so my mom will be able to take care of him like she’d take care of me.  And my dad will get lonely in Tokyo by himself.”

Hajime can feel his heart tearing in two.  “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Everything inside Hajime hurts, feels like it’s been doused in gasoline and set afire.  “And you never thought to tell me.”

“I didn’t want you to get too upset and fail the entrance exams,” Tooru says.

“Those were _months_ ago!”

“We didn’t make the final decision until a few weeks ago.  I didn’t want to make you worry in case I ended up staying.”  Tooru’s voice is flat; Hajime knows the last part is a lie.  

“I’m sorry,” Tooru says.

Hajime doesn’t say anything; he’s afraid that if he does, he’ll start crying, and that’s the last thing he needs.  Instead, he turns around, walks away, breaking out into a frenzied run as soon as he rounds the corner to his street.  He bursts through the front door of his house and sprints straight to his room, ignoring his mother’s questions of why he looks so upset.  He’s already sobbing by the time he locks his bedroom door behind him, the tears hot, acidic, his entire body aching as he collapses on his bed, desperate to avoid all of the memories of Tooru collapsing next to him, a smile curving his fine features, a spark in his eye that always made Hajime’s heart give the subtlest of leaps.

He stays in his room for the rest of the night, sulking and miserable as he stares at the ceiling.  He ignores his mother when she knocks on his door, asking what’s wrong, when she comes back half an hour later saying Tooru called, he wants to talk to Hajime, won’t he come out?

He starts to doze around midnight; his insides feel shredded, and he convulses with self-loathing when an errant insect hits the glass of the window and he mistakes the sound for Tooru, tapping to be let in, to explain, to draw Hajime into his arms and promise him that everything will be okay.  Tooru never shows up, though, and Hajime falls into a dark, dreamless sleep, waking up with a dry mouth, crusty eyes, and a hollowness inside that aches around the edges.

He feels a little silly for his behavior when he goes downstairs for breakfast, but his mom doesn’t say anything as she gently places a bowl of miso in front of him.  She simply places a comforting hand on his head, but other than that, she leaves him alone, knowing that putting words to it will only make the reality more real.

Tooru doesn’t call again, and a month after high school starts, Hajime gives up hope that he might hear anything from him at all.  He makes new friends, Matsukawa, Watari, and he even reconciles with Hanamaki, who he had punched all those years ago for calling Tooru gross and needy.  It’s fitting, he thinks, that his friendship with Tooru seems to have begun and ended with Hanamaki.  It makes everything feel more like fate, out of Hajime’s hands.  The sharp pain in his heart turns into a dull pain, and then it recedes, slowly, year by year, month by month, until he feels like he’s okay, like Oikawa Tooru hadn’t been the first person to completely break his heart.  

“You live and you learn,” his mother says one night when Hajime finds himself wallowing in a few memories.  They’re camped out on the living room sofa together watching one of his mother’s favorite dramas, something about a coffee shop and a girl that looks like a boy.  “It’s a shame it had to be him, though.  I thought he was really lovely.”

“He was everything _but_ lovely,” Hajime protests.  “I don’t even know why I liked him so much.”

His mother smiles, and a vague feeling of irritation wells up inside of him.  “Let’s stop talking now.  Han-kyul is about to realize Eun-chan is a girl.  It’s my favorite part.”

Hajime watches the Korean drama unfold, and while he wonders why his mom gets so engrossed in them, he finds himself drifting, his mind wandering, wondering where in Tokyo he might hear the slap of a volleyball against a gym floor, the soft _thump_ of feet hitting the floor in completion of a perfectly lethal jump-serve.

Then he brushes those thoughts aside, preferring the more immediate drama between the coffee prince and the common girl.

**  
**

_in between_

Hajime walks into Intro to Biochemistry with a heavy heart, reluctant to even sit down on the first day of class.  He still doesn’t know if the Pre-Med track is the best decision he could make, if he’s even smart enough to make it through everything, let alone this one introductory course.  He sits in the second to last row, his knees jittery as other students file in, unfamiliar faces ignoring him in favor of keeping aloof.  Hajime had heard that the Pre-Med students at this school were fairly competitive, but the sidelong glances and snootish upturned noses are more disconcerting than he had anticipated.

Someone plops down into the seat next to him, and Hajime looks over in surprise.  A tall, lanky guy with outrageous hair looks back, his mouth twisted in a way that looks like he’s trying not to laugh at some private joke.  

“‘Sup,” he says, the suppressed smirk dissolving into what Hajime thinks is a fairly genuine smile.  “I’m Kuroo.”

“I-Iwaizumi Hajime.”  Hajime instinctively ducks his head in a minute bow.  “Nice to meet you.”

Kuroo stretches his long legs out in front of him with a yawn.  “You trying to be a doctor, as well?”

“I’m not sure.  Maybe.”

A sly pair of golden eyes peek out at him under heavy lids.  “That’s cool.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” his new friend admits, not sounding at all concerned.  “We’ll see how this class goes.”

Something in the casual posture of Kuroo tells Hajime that he’s hiding some secret brilliance, but Hajime only bites his lip, looking down at his notebook and pencil.  He feels suddenly inadequate, and he wants to go home, so he grits his teeth and turns back to Kuroo.  “Well, I bet I’ll end up doing better than you this semester.”

Kuroo’s smile shows teeth this time.  “Wanna actually bet on it?”

Hajime finds himself extending his hand before he realizes what he’s doing.  A vaguely familiar thrill runs under his skin, one he hasn’t felt in several years.  It makes him smile.  “Of course.”

**  
**

_now_

Oikawa’s apartment is surprisingly cozy when Hajime enters.  The couch has throw blankets tossed over the back of it, a motley collection of photos and art prints dot the walls, and the whole place smells deliciously familiar; Hajime doesn’t realize that it’s milk bread he’s smelling until he spots a plate of it on the coffee table by the TV.

“My roommate is like, the nicest guy I’ve ever met,” Oikawa says by way of explanation.  He looks around, his hand still holding on to Hajime’s even though he’s no longer leading him down the hallway.  “He might actually be out with his super buff boyfriend…”

The mention of a boyfriend makes the air go thick between them.  Oikawa suddenly drops Hajime’s hand, and Hajime awkwardly runs his other hand through his hair.  

Oikawa coughs.  “Anyway,” he says.  “We can… hang out?”

Hajime nods.  “It’s not like I have a curfew.”

The answering smile is so, so charming.  “That’s good.”

Oikawa goes off to the bathroom, then, and Hajime stays in the living room, carefully examining the art prints and photos.  They’re obviously not Oikawa’s - he doesn’t recognize any of the people in the photos, and there aren’t enough references to space and aliens in the prints.  There’s a drawing of a cat in sunglasses that looks like it had been frantically done, a name - “Noya” - messily scrawled in a corner.  One of the photos is of two guys, one with light, silvery hair, the other dark, their arms around each other, rosy, happy glows coloring their faces.  Another is of a high school volleyball club, all of the members gathered in front of the net, their arms casually draped around one another like in a family photo.  One of them - a small boy with a shock of orange hair - is clinging to a tall, grumpy-looking kid who looks exactly like -

“Is that Kageyama?” he asks when he hears Oikawa emerge from the hallway behind him.

Oikawa huffs.  “ _Yes_ ,” he says.  “I can’t believe that I ended up with one of his old teammates.  All this time, and he’s _still_ invading my life.”

Hajime turns around, a laugh escaping his mouth.  “You’re still salty about that?”

Oikawa steps closer; he’s close enough for Hajime to catch a whiff of his scent, like fresh deodorant.  “Are you surprised?”

His voice is breezy, flirtatious, and its archness makes Hajime’s heart stutter.  “N-no,” he says.  The scent of milk bread combines with Oikawa’s clean, earthy scent as he steps closer yet; Hajime can feel some of the warmth radiating off of his body now.

He sees his gaze drop to his lips, then, and Hajime knows a second before it happens that it’s coming.  There’s time to take an anticipatory breath, and then Oikawa kisses him, gentle, restrained, his hands sliding around Hajime’s waist to pull him closer.  

Heat coils low in Hajime’s body, his palms sweat as he braces himself against Oikawa’s arms, and he jumps a little in surprise when he feels Oikawa’s tongue press against his bottom lip.  He tastes popcorn and chocolate when he opens his mouth, and his head swims as he takes in the sensations: the soft slide of Oikawa’s tongue over his own, the bite of his teeth against his lips, the hypnotic rhythm of his breaths that punctuate each kiss.  

“God, you don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” Oikawa breathes as he pulls away.  Hajime’s head is full of white noise; dully, he notes just how pink and puffy Oikawa’s lips have become.  Oikawa rests his forehead against Hajime’s, and his eyes, wide and molten, appearing doubled in Hajime’s hazy vision.

When Hajime doesn’t say anything, Oikawa pulls away again, this time to study Hajime’s face.  “Was that okay?” He asks.  Hajime can feel his hands letting go of his sides.  “Should - should I not have - ”

Hajime places a gently restraining hand on top of Oikawa’s.  “It’s okay,” he says, and as he says it, a whirlwind of relief washes through him, leaves him a little weak-kneed as he thinks, _It’s all okay._

A smile tugs at the corner of Oikawa’s mouth, but he’s hesitant to let it blossom fully.  He lets his hands drop away from Hajime’s side and takes a step back, guiltily avoiding Hajime’s eye as he does so.  “I mean… I know that what I did was stupid, and immature, and, honestly, I don’t know _why_ \- ”

“Oikawa, honestly, it’s _okay_ \- ”

Oikawa meets his gaze, then, and he looks like he’s about to cry.  “I hated myself, you know?”  He moves to the couch, where he perches on the armrest, his hands fluttering in front of him, not sure what to do with them.  “I was angry that I couldn’t actually say what I was feeling, and then I let my dad take me to Tokyo, even though I got into Seijoh along with you, and as soon as we moved out, I immediately regretted everything, and then you refused to talk to me…”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Hajime says.  “You abandoned me.”

“When I transferred to the university here from Tokyo, the very first thing I thought of when I got off the train was visiting you,” Oikawa admits.  “But I was afraid that if I did, everything that I’d worried about in high school would come true.  And then we ran into each other a few weeks ago, and I was so happy to see you again, I almost thought you were a ghost.”  A dry laugh comes out through his nose.  “I still wonder sometimes if this is all too good to be true, and you’re going to snap one day and leave me behind like I did after middle school.”

Hajime leans back against the wall behind him, his arms crossed against his chest.  “I _did_ hate you, in the beginning,” he admits.  “I was angry, and upset, because you just… disappeared.  But then I got on with my life, and I got into university, and now I have this shitty internship with my best friend who somehow got his life together before me, even though he’s an asshole.”  He peeks over to Oikawa, who’s looking at him with big, shining eyes.  “And then you popped back up, and I was too happy about it to think about being angry.  Sure, you’re annoying, and extremely exasperating, but you’re you, and I’m me, and it’s better to have you around than push you away.”

Oikawa’s voice is fragile.  “I really, really missed you, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime smiles ruefully.  “I guess I missed you too, Ass-kawa.”

Oikawa laughs, and Hajime goes over to where he’s sitting.  Arms wrap around his waist again and pull him closer.  He leans down, catches Oikawa’s lips in his own, and then Oikawa’s pulling him down onto the couch, where they land without much trouble. Hajime presses close, relishing the way Oikawa shivers against his touch, the shaky breath he feels against his skin as Oikawa exhales, the flutter of eyelashes against his cheeks.  

Then, Hajime pulls away and props himself up on his elbows, thinking.  

“What’s up?” Oikawa asks.

“I just…”  Hajime swallows some spit.  “I can’t believe you’re rooming with someone know also knows Kageyama.  Isn’t that strange?”

Hajime can feel the heave of Oikawa’s frustrated huff underneath him.  “What I can’t believe,” he says, “is that that asshole is _still_ finding ways to ruin my life.”  When Hajime laughs, he snaps, “He’s even cockblocking me without even being in the same vicinity!  Stop _laughing_ \- ”

They’re interrupted by the door opening, and Hajime looks up to see the silver-haired boy from the photo looking at them with wide, startled eyes.  “Oh…  Is this a bad time, Oikawa?”

Hajime scrambles into a sitting position, but Oikawa simply stays where he is, as if this kind of scenario has happened before;  Hajime would bet good money that it has.  “Hey, Suga,” he says.  “Were you out with Scary-kun?”

“I told you to stop calling Daichi scary,” Suga chides, closing the door behind him and unwrapping the scarf from his neck.  “It makes him self-conscious.”

Oikawa snorts, sitting up.  “It’s not my fault his face looks like that.”

Hajime gently jabs him with his elbow, and Oikawa yelps.  “Iwa-chan!”

“So this is the famous Iwa-chan?” Suga asks, smiling as he looks between the two of them.

Oikawa blushes, _really_ blushes, his face twisting with embarrassment.  Hajime hasn’t seen this happen since they were probably twelve years old, and the fact that he actually gets to see Oikawa blush like this makes his heart give a heavy, affectionate thud.  

Oikawa struggles to make the introductions.  “I-Iwa-chan, this is my roommate, Sugawara Koushi.  Suga, this is Iwa-chan, my… my old friend.”

Suga sits in the chair next to the couch.  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, and the smile on his face is so genuine; Hajime thinks it’s a brutal irony that he has to live with someone as obnoxious and artificial as Oikawa.  

He raises an eyebrow.  “Finally?”

“Well, Oikawa’s told me so much about you, it feels like I’ve already met you - ”

“Okay,” Oikawa interrupts, standing up with high color still in his cheeks.  “It’s getting pretty late, Iwa-chan, I think your mom probably wants you home soon - ”  He grabs Hajime’s hand and yanks him off of the couch.  “Sorry to cut this so short, Suga, but Iwa-chan’s mom is really strict.”

Hajime can’t decide if he wants to kick Oikawa in the leg or laugh as he gets dragged to the door, where Oikawa grabs his coat and scarf and drape them over Hajime’s shoulders.  He looks behind him, and Suga is watching his roommate’s antics with a vaguely amused smile, as if this isn’t the first time he’s seen something like this.  

“It was nice meeting you, Iwaizumi-san,” Suga calls after them as Oikawa shuffles Hajime out the door.  “I’ll see you some other time.”

“Bye - ” Oikawa quickly closes the door.  Hajime looks at him, narrows his eyes.  “That was really rude.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Oikawa says, except he doesn’t sound sorry at all.  They start down the hallway side by side, their shoulders brushing against each other with every other step.  

Hajime snorts.  “Are you that upset by losing your cool image?” he asks.  “Because I doubt Sugawara still thinks you’re cool at this point.  And I’ve _never_ thought you were cool.”

“You’re so _mean_ ,” Oikawa whines.  But despite his petulant tone, he threads his fingers through Hajime’s, his thumb rubbing almost reverently against the side of his hand.  “Why do I like you so much?”

It’s the first time he’s admitted those words since they were thirteen and lying in the dark of Hajime’s room, their hearts hammering in unison with the stirrings of first love.  It makes Hajime stop, and all kinds of things slide into place as he stares at the beautiful boy next to him.

Oikawa takes a few steps before their fingers come apart, and when that happens, he turns around, his eyes wide with the fear that he may have gone too far.  “Sorry - ”

“Stop apologizing,” Hajime snaps, smiling despite himself as Oikawa’s face goes blank with confusion.  “I like you too, you idiot,” he says as he starts walking again, brushing past Oikawa as he heads for the stairs.  “I have since I was probably ten years old.”

He peeks over his shoulder at Oikawa, who’s still standing, and staring.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Yeah?”

A hand reaches out and holds onto his arm, and then he’s being pulled into Oikawa’s embrace.  His lips press against Hajime’s forehead, and Hajime can feel his heart beating so, so fast.  “I really, really like you, Hajime,” he murmurs.  The use of his name startles Hajime, and for a moment, he can’t do anything but blink and breathe in Oikawa’s warm, sweet scent.  It doesn’t matter, though, because Oikawa tightens his arms around him and adds, “And I’m going to like you for a really long time, so you need to get used to it.”

Hajime snorts.  “I had to get used to you hanging around me a long time ago.  Don’t worry.”

A puff of air ruffles some of Hajime’s hair as Oikawa huffs petulantly.  “I’m finally properly confessing to you, and you can’t even reply with something nice.”

Hajime hesitates.  He suddenly feels like he’s about to overflow with emotions, and he feels almost disoriented.  “I just,” he starts, but then he stops, and he realizes just how long they’ve been holding each other in the middle of the hallway.  “You know I feel the same way, right?”

He feels Oikawa exhale with a shudder, and when he pulls away, his eyes are watery with joy even as he tries to pull off a smug quirk of his lips.  “Everyone likes me, Iwa-chan,” he says weakly.  “No one can withstand my charms.”

Hajime decisively steps out of Oikawa’s arms.  “Okay, I’m going home now.”

“Wait!”  Oikawa tries to grab him, but Hajime pulls his arm away just in time.  “Iwa-chan!”

“I can’t believe you’re so embarrassing,” Hajime says as he finally reaches the stairwell.  

Oikawa successfully recaptures his hand this time.  When Hajime turns around to tell him to let go, the earnest look on his face, so unusual it’s almost out of place, makes him hold his tongue.  “Let me walk you to the station?” he asks.

Something - the final piece of the puzzle, the sliver of heart Oikawa had taken with him to Tokyo all those years ago - falls into place inside Hajime, and everything feels right.  He feels _certain_.  “Yeah,” he says, unable to control the smile that’s stretching his mouth.  “Of course.”

**  
**

_later_

“Iwa-chan!”

“ _What_.”  Hajime pokes his head out from the kitchen, where he’s doing his best not to burn the curry he’s trying to make for dinner.

Oikawa pouts from his spot on the couch, his head the only thing visible over the nest of blankets he’s managed to build around himself.  “I miss you.”

Irritation swells inside Hajime like rising magma, and it takes everything within him to refrain from rolling his eyes.  “I’ve been gone for like, five minutes.”

“But it’s not the same watching _X Files_ without Scully next to me!”

Hajime steps out from the kitchen, fuming.  “For the last time, Tooru, stop calling me Scully!”

Oikawa smiles goofily at the use of his first name, and Hajime tries to ignore the way his insides go soft.  

Oikawa’s arms emerge from the mass of blankets, and he reaches out, his hands grasping air.  “Come back to me, Iwa-chan.”

“The curry’s going to burn.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Hajime takes an involuntary step forward, but then he stops himself.  “You made me get up from _X Files_ to cook because you _said_ you were hungry!”

“I change my mind.”

A deep, heavy, exasperated sigh, and Hajime reluctantly finds himself standing behind the couch as Oikawa’s arms wind around his neck and pull him in for a slow, tender kiss.  It takes every ounce of effort for Hajime to pull away.  “I have to go back.”

“You love me,” Oikawa says, completely ignoring Hajime’s anxious fidgeting as he kisses him again, light and quick.  

“Yeah, right,” Hajime scoffs, but he totally does, and he’s about to jump over the back of the couch to join his boyfriend (Hajime still can’t believe he finally gets to use the word _boyfriend_ ) when a bitter, almost sweet scent hits his nostrils.  “God, _damn_ it!” he yells, and then he’s running back to the kitchen, where a stream of silvery smoke is billowing out from under the lid.  The fire alarm starts going off as Hajime tries to do damage control, and he swears under his breath as he grabs a towel and starts waving it in front of the sensor.  This is the second time this has happened.

“Sorry,” comes Oikawa’s weak voice from the living room.  

Hajime steps out from the kitchen, exhausted.  “We’re getting takeout.”

“I recommended that from the very start,” Oikawa says primly as Hajime plops down on the couch next to him.

Hajime laughs weakly.  “You’re so full of shit.”

“But you love me,” Oikawa says again.  He wraps himself around Hajime’s arm, and looks up at Hajime with large doe eyes.  “Right?”

Hajime looks at him, at his messy bedhead, his flushed cheeks, the mischievous spark that lights up his eyes.  Sure, he’s terrible, and difficult, and has an annoying propensity for buying ugly T-shirts with aliens on them from secondhand stores, but the butterflies in Hajime’s stomach remind him of all the other times Oikawa’s hopeful smile had made him feel this way.  “Maybe,” he says, his insides expanding when Oikawa reaches up to kiss him.  “Probably.”

Oikawa snorts, and Hajime can feel the rush of air against his lips.  “You’re so cute when you act tsundere,” he says.

Hajime doesn’t reply, just lets Oikawa be close to him as they turn to the TV, where Mulder and Scully are discussing outlandish theories.  And even as Hajime’s stomach lets out a low, rolling growl, he doesn’t think he wants to be anywhere else at this moment.  Here, and now, Hajime thinks that anything could happen, and as long as Oikawa is with him, he thinks he’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a reference, here are their approximate ages in the present timeline, as well as the flashbacks:  
> now - 20-21 years old  
> the beginning - 9-10 years  
> a little bit after the beginning - 12 years  
> a little bit more after the beginning - 12-13 years  
> a lot more after the beginning - 13, 14 years  
> the end & when it all fell apart - 15 years
> 
> And because I can't help it, here's another song that I found during the writing process that really fit what I was going for: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fdXNNveYOfU


End file.
